ROOF  AND  MEADOW 


ROOF  AND  MEADOW 


BY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
R.  BRUCE  HORSFALL 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

dbe  fitoerpibe  $w$$  Cambtibfle 

1918 


COPYRIGHT,    1902    AND    1903,    BY    HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   &    CO. 
COPYRIGHT,    1902    AND    IQOJ,    BY   W.    W.    POTTER   CO.   (LTD.) 

COPYRIGHT,    1902    AND    1903,    BY    PERRY    MASON    CO. 

COPYRIGHT,    1903,    BY   THE    CHAPPLE    PUBLISHING   CO.  (LTD.) 

COPYRIGHT,    1903   AND    1904,    BY   THE    CENTL'RY    CO 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  April  1904 


TO 
MY   MOTHER 


1692780 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BIRDS  FROM  A  CITY  ROOF  ....  1 
THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK  .  .  19 

THREE  SERMONS 31 

THE  MARSH  .  .  .  '  .  .  .45 
CALICO  AND  THE  KITTENS.  .  .  .77 

THE  SPARROW  ROOST 91 

"Mux"          .        .        .        .        .        .        .107 

RACOON  CREEK 121 

THE  DRAGON  OF  THE  SWALE  .  .  .  147 
TICKLE-BIRDS  AND  THE  COCCINELLID^E  .  161 

THE  CRAZY  FLICKER 177 

SOME  FRIENDLY  BIRDS  ....  187 
"THE  LONGEST  WAY  ROUND"  .  .  .  199 
"ONE  FLEW  EAST  AND  ONE  FLEW  WEST"  213 

CHICKAREE 231 

BIRD  FRIENDSHIPS 251 

FARM-YARD  STUDIES 261 

I  wish  to  thank  the  editors  of  "St.  Nicholas,"  the  "National 
Magazine,"  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  the  "  Youth's  Com- 
panion "  for  allowing  me  to  reprint  here  the  chapters  of  "  Roof 
and  Meadow  "  that  first  appeared  in  their  pages. 

DALLAS  LORE  SHAHP. 
[Vii] 


BIEDS   FKOM   A   CITY   EOOF 


if- 


BIRDS   FROM    A   CITY   ROOF 

I  LAID  down  my  book  and  listened.     It  was 
only  the  choking  gurgle  of  a  broken  rain- 
pipe  outside  :   then  it  was  the  ripple  and  swish 
of  a  meadow  stream.    To  make  out  the  voices  of 
redwings  and  marsh-wrens  in  the  rasping  notes 
of  the  city  sparrows  behind  the  shutter  required 
[3] 


much  more  imagination.  But  I  did  it.  I  wanted 
to  hear,  and  the  splash  of  the  water  helped  me. 

The  sounds  of  wind  and  water  are  the  same 
everywhere.  Here  at  the  heart  of  the  city  I 
can  forget  the  tarry  pebbles  and  painted  tin 
whenever  my  rain-pipes  are  flooded.  I  can 
never  be  wholly  shut  away  from  the  open  coun- 
try and  the  trees  so  long  as  the  winds  draw 
hard  down  the  alley  past  my  window. 

But  I  have  more  than  a  window  and  a  broken 
rain-pipe.  Along  with  my  five  flights  goes  a 
piece  of  roof,  flat,  with  a  wooden  floor,  a  fence, 
and  a  million  acres  of  sky.  I  could  n't  possibly 
use  another  acre  of  sky,  except  along  the  east- 
ern horizon,  where  the  top  floors  of  some  twelve- 
story  buildings  intercept  the  dawn. 

With  such  a  roof  and  such  a  sky,  when  I  must, 
I  can,  with  effort,  get  well  out  of  the  city.  I 
have  never  fished  nor  botanized  here,  but  I  have 
been  a-birding  many  times. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

nor  city  streets  a  cage— if  one  have  a  roof. 

A  roof  is  not  an  ideal  spot  for  bird  study.     I 
would  hardly,  out  of  preference,  have  chosen 
[4] 


this  with  its  soot  and  its  battlement  of  gaseous 
chimney-pots,  even  though  it  is  a  university 
roof  with  the  great  gilded  dome  of  a  state  house 
shining  down  upon  it.  One  whose  feet  have 
always  been  in  the  soil  does  not  take  kindly  to 
tar  and  tin.  But  anything  open  to  the  sky  is 
open  to  some  of  the  birds,  for  the  paths  of  many 
of  the  migrants  lie  close  along  the  clouds. 

Other  birds  than  the  passing  migrants,  how- 
ever, sometimes  come  within  range  of  my  look- 
out. The  year  around  there  are  English  spar- 
rows and  pigeons  ;  and  all  through  the  summer 
scarcely  an  evening  passes  when  a  few  chimney- 
swallows  are  not  in  sight. 

With  the  infinite  number  and  variety  of 
chimneys  hedging  me  in,  I  naturally  expected 
to  find  the  sky  alive  with  swallows.  Indeed,  I 
thought  that  some  of  the  twenty -six  pots  at  the 
corners  of  my  roof  would  be  inhabited  by  the 
birds.  Not  so.  While  I  can  nearly  always  find 
a  pair  of  swallows  in  the  air,  they  are  surpris- 
ingly scarce,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  they  rarely 
build  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  There  are  more 
canaries  in  my  block  than  chimney-swallows  in 
all  my  sky. 

[5] 


The  swallows  are  not  urban  birds.  The  gas, 
the  smoke,  the  shrieking  ventilators,  and  the 
ceaseless  sullen  roar  of  the  city  are  hardly  to 
their  liking.  Perhaps  the  flies  and  gnats  which 
they  feed  upon  cannot  live  in  the  air  above  the 
roofs.  The  swallows  want  a  sleepy  old  town 
with  big  thunderful  chimneys,  where  there  are 
wide  fields  and  a  patch  of  quiet  water. 

Much  more  numerous  than  the  swallows  are 
the  night-hawks.  My  roof,  in  fact,  is  the  best 
place  I  have  ever  found  to  study  their  feeding 
habits.  These  that  flit  through  my  smoky  dusk 
may  not  make  city  nests,  though  the  finding  of 
such  nests  would  not  surprise  me.  Of  course  a 
night-hawk's  nest,  here  or  anywhere  else,  would 
surprise  me  ;  for  like  her  cousin,  the  whippoor- 
will,  she  never  builds  a  nest,  but  stops  in  the 
grass,  the  gravel,  the  leaves,  or  on  a  bare  rock, 
deposits  her  eggs  without  even  scratching  aside 
the  sticks  and  stones  that  may  share  the  bed, 
and  in  three  days  is  brooding  them  —  brooding 
the  stones  too. 

It  is  likely  that  some  of  my  hawks  nest  on 
the  buildings  in  the  neighborhood.  Night- 
hawks'  eggs  have  occasionally  been  found 


among  the  pebbles  of  city  roofs.  The  high,  flat 
house-tops  are  so  quiet  and  remote,  so  far  away 
from  the  noisy  life  in  the  narrow  streets  below, 
that  the  birds  make  their  nests  here  as  if  in  a 
world  apart.  The  twelve-  and  fifteen-story 
buildings  are  as  so  many  deserted  mountain 
heads  to  them. 

None  of  the  birds  build  on  my  roof,  however. 
But  from  early  spring  they  haunt  the  region  so 
constantly  that  their  families,  if  they  have  fam- 
ilies at  all,  must  be  somewhere  in  the  vicinity. 
Should  I  see  them  like  this  about  a  field  or 
thicket  in  the  country  it  would  certainly  mean 
a  nest. 

The  sparrows  themselves  do  not  seem  more  at 
home  here  than  do  these  night-hawks.  One  even- 
ing, after  a  sultry  July  day,  a  wild  wind-storm 
burst  over  the  city.  The  sun  was  low,  glaring 
through  a  narrow  rift  between  the  hill-crests  and 
the  clouds  that  spread  green  and  heavy  across  the 
sky.  I  could  see  the  lower  fringes  of  the  clouds 
working  and  writhing  in  the  wind,  but  not  a 
sound  or  a  breath  was  in  the  air  about  me. 
Around  me  over  my  roof  flew  the  night-hawks. 
They  were  crying  peevishly  and  skimming  close 

[7] 


to  the  chimneys,  not  rising,  as  usual,  to  any 
height. 

Suddenly  the  storm  broke.  The  rain  fell  as 
if  something  had  given  way  overhead.  The 
wind  tore  across  the  stubble  of  roofs  and  spires  ; 
and  through  the  wind,  the  rain,  and  the  rolling 
clouds  shot  a  weird,  yellow-green  sunlight. 

I  had  never  seen  a  storm  like  it.  Nor  had 
the  night-hawks.  They  seemed  to  be  terrified, 
and  left  the  sky  immediately.  One  of  them, 
alighting  on  the  roof  across  the  street,  and 
creeping  into  the  lee  of  a  chimney,  huddled 
there  in  sight  of  me  until  the  wind  was  spent 
and  a  natural  sunlight  flooded  the  world  of  roofs 
and  domes  and  spires. 

Then  they  were  all  awing  once  more,  hawk- 
ing for  supper.  Along  with  the  hawking  they 
got  in  a  great  deal  of  play,  doing  their  tumbling 
and  cloud-coasting  over  the  roofs  just  as  they  do 
above  the  fields. 

Mounting  by  easy  stages  of  half  a  dozen  rapid 
strokes,  catching  flies  by  the  way,  and  crying 
peent-peent,  the-  acrobat  climbs  until  I  look  a 
mere  lump  on  the  roof;  then  ceasing  his  whim- 
pering peent,  he  turns  on  bowed  wings  and  falls 

[8] 


—shoots   roofward    with    fearful   speed.      The 
chimneys !     Quick ! 

Quick  he  is.  Just  short  of  the  roofs  the  taut 
wings  flash  a  reverse,  there  is  a  lightning  swoop, 
a  startling  hollow  wind-sound,  and  the  rushing 
bird  is  beating  skyward  again,  hawking  delib- 
erately as  before,  and  uttering  again  his  peevish 
nasal  cry. 

This  single  note,  the  only  call  he  has  besides  a 
few  squeaks,  is  far  from  a  song ;  farther  still  is 
the  empty-barrel-bung-hole  sound  made  by  the 
air  in  the  rushing  wings  as  the  bird  swoops  in 
his  fall.  The  night-hawk,  alias  "  bull-bat,"  does 
not  sing.  What  a  name  bull-bat  would  be  for  a 
singing  bird  !  But  a  "voice  "  was  never  intended 
for  the  creature.  Voice,  beak,  legs,  head  — 
everything  but  wings  and  maw  was  sacrificed 
for  a  mouth.  What  a  mouth !  The  bird  can 
almost  swallow  himself.  Such  a  cleft  in  the 
head  could  never  mean  a  song ;  it  could  never 
be  utilized  for  anything  but  a  fly-trap. 

We  have  use  for  fly-traps.  We  need  some 
birds  just  to  sit  around,  look  pretty,  and  warble. 
We  will  pay  them  for  it  in  cherries  or  in  what- 
ever they  ask.  But  there  is  also  a  great  need 


for  birds  that  kill  insects.  And  first  among 
these  are  the  night-hawks.  They  seem  to  have 
been  designed  for  this  sole  purpose.  Their  end 
is  to  kill  insects.  They  are  more  like  machines 
than  any  other  birds  I  know.  The  enormous 
mouth  feeds  an  enormous  stomach,  and  this,  like 
a  fire-box,  makes  the  power  that  works  the 
enormous  wings.  From  a  single  maw  have  been 
taken  eighteen  hundred  winged  ants,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  smaller  fry  that  could  not  be 
identified  and  counted. 

But  if  he  never  caught  an  ant,  never  one  of 
the  fifth-story  mosquitos  that  live  and  bite  till 
Christmas,  how  greatly  still  my  sky  would  need 
him !  His  flight  is  song  enough.  His  cry  and 
eery  thunder  are  the  very  voice  of  the  summer 
twilight  to  me.  And  as  I  watch  him  coasting 
in  the  evening  dusk,  that  twilight  often  falls- 
over  the  roofs,  as  it  used  to  fall  for  me  over  the 
fields  and  the  quiet  hollow  woods. 

There  is  always  an  English  sparrow  on  my 
roof— which  does  not  particularly  commend  the 
roof  to  bird-lovers,  I  know.  I  often  wish  the 
sparrow  an  entirely  different  bird,  but  I  never 
wish  him  entirely  away  from  the  roof.  When 
[10] 


there  is  no  other  defense  for  him,  I  fall  back 
upon  his  being  a  bird.  Any  kind  of  a  bird  in 
the  city  !  Any  but  a  parrot. 

A  pair  of  sparrows  nest  regularly  in  an  eaves- 
trough,  so  close  to  the  roof  that  I  can  overhear 
their  family  talk.  Bound,  loquacious,  familiar 
Cock  Sparrow  is  a  family  man— so  entirely  a 
family  man  as  to  be  nothing  else  at  all.  He  is 
a  success,  too.  It  does  me  good  to  see  him  build. 
He  tore  the  old  nest  all  away  in  the  early  winter, 
so  as  to  be  ready.  There  came  a  warm  springish 
day  in  February,  and  he  began.  A  blizzard 
stopped  him,  but  with  the  melting  of  the  snow 
he  went  to  work  again,  completing  the  nest  by 
the  middle  of  March. 

He  built  for  a  big  family,  and  he  had  it.  Not 
"it"  indeed,  but  them;  for  there  were  three 
batches  of  from  six  to  ten  youngsters  each  dur- 
ing the  course  of  the  season.  He  also  did  a  fa- 
ther's share  of  work  with  the  children.  I  think 
he  hated  hatching  them.  He  would  settle  upon 
the  roof  above  the  nest,  and  chirp  in  a  crabbed, 
imposed-upon  tone  until  his  wife  came  out.  As 
she  flew  briskly  away,  he  would  look  disconso- 
lately around  at  the  bright  busy  world,  ruffle  his 

[11] 


feathers,  scold  to  himself,  and  then  crawl  duti- 
fully in  upon  the  eggs. 

I  knew  how  he  felt.  It  is  not  in  a  cock  spar- 
row to  enjoy  hatching  eggs.  I  respected  him ; 
for  though  he  grumbled,  as  any  normal  husband 
might,  still  he  was  "drinking  fair"  with  Mrs. 
Sparrow.  He  built  and  brooded  and  foraged 
for  his  family,  if  not  as  sweetly,  yet  as  faithfully, 
as  his  wife.  He  deserved  his  blessed  abundance 
of  children. 

Is  he  songless,  sooty,  uninteresting,  vulgar? 
Not  if  you  live  on  a  roof.  He  may  be  all  of 
this,  a  pest  even,  in  the  country.  But  upon  my 
roof,  for  weeks  at  a  stretch,  his  is  the  only  bird 
voice  I  hear.  Throughout  the  spring,  and  far 
into  the  summer,  I  watch  the  domestic  affairs  in 
the  eaves-trough.  During  the  winter,  at  night- 
fall, I  see  little  bands  and  flurries  of  birds 
scudding  over  and  dropping  behind  the  high 
buildings  to  the  east.  They  are  sparrows  on  the 
way  to  their  roost  in  the  elms  of  an  old  mid- 
city  burial-ground. 

I  not  infrequently  spy  a  hawk  soaring  calmly 
far  away  above  the  roof.  Not  only  the  small 
ones,  like  the  sharp-shinned,  but  also  the  larger, 
[12] 


wilder  species  come,  and  winding  up  close  to 
the  clouds,  circle  and  circle  there,  trying  appa- 
rently to  see  some  meaning  in  the  maze  of  mov- 
ing, intersecting  lines  of  dots  below  yonder  in 
the  cracks  of  that  smoking,  rumbling  blur. 

In  the  spring,  from  the  trees  of  the  Common, 
which  are  close,  but,  except  for  the  crown  of 
one  noble  English  elm,  are  shut  away  from  me, 
I  hear  an  occasional  robin  and  Baltimore  oriole. 
Very  rarely  a  woodpecker  will  go  over.  The 
great  northern  shrike  is  a  frequent  winter  visitor, 
but  by  ill  chance  I  have  not  been  up  when  he 
has  called  at  the  roof. 

One  of  these  fiend  birds  haunts  a  small  court 
only  a  block  away,  which  is  inclosed  in  a  high 
board  fence,  topped  with  nails.  He  likes  the 
court  because  of  these  nails.  They  are  sharp ; 
they  will  stick  clean  through  the  body  of  a  spar- 
row. Sometimes  the  fiend  has  a  dozen  sparrows 
run  through  with  them,  leaving  the  impaled 
bodies  to  flutter  in  the  wind  and  finally  fall 
away. 

In  sight  from  my  roof  are  three  tiny  patches 
of  the  harbor ;  sometimes  a  fourth,  when  the 
big  red-funneled  liner  is  gone  from  her  slip. 
[13] 


Down  to  the  water  of  the  harbor  iu  flocks  from 
the  north  come  other  winter  visitors,  the  her- 
ring and  black-backed  gulls.  Often  during  the 
winter  I  find  them  in  my  sky. 

One  day  they  will  cross  silently  over  the  city 
in  a  long  straggling  line.  Again  they  will  fly 
low,  wheeling  and  screaming,  their  wild  sea- 
voices  shrill  with  the  sound  of  storm.  If  it  is 
thick  and  gray  overhead,  the  snow-white  bodies 
of  the  herring-gulls  toss  in  the  wind  above  the 
roofs  like  patches  of  foam.  I  hear  the  sca- 
the wind,  the  surf,  the  wild,  fierce  tumult  of  the 
shore— whenever  the  white  gulls  sail  screaming 
into  my  winter  sky. 

I  have  never  lived  under  a  wider  reach  of 
sky  than  that  above  my  roof.  It  offers  a  clear, 
straight,  six-minute  course  to  the  swiftest  wedge 
of  wild  geese.  Spring  and  autumn  the  geese 
and  ducks  go  over,  and  their  passage  is  the 
most  thrilling  event  in  all  my  bird  calendar. 

It  is  because  the  ducks  fly  high  and  silent 
that  I  see  them  so  rarely.  They  are  always  a 
surprise.  You  look,  and  there  against  the  dull 
sky  they  move,  strange  dark  forms  that  set  your 
blood  leaping.  But  I  never  see  a  string  of  them 
[14] 


winging  over  that  I  do  not  think  of  a  huge 
thousand-legger  crawling  the  clouds. 

My  glimpses  of  the  geese  are  largely  chance, 
too.  Several  times,  through  the  open  window 
by  my  table,  I  have  heard  the  faint,  far-off 
honking,  and  have  hurried  to  the  roof  in  time  to 
watch  the  travelers  disappear.  One  spring  day 
I  was  upon  the  roof  when  a  large  belated  flock 
came  over,  headed  north.  It  was  the  20th  of 
April,  and  the  morning  had  broken  very  warm. 
I  could  see  that  the  geese  were  hot  and  tired. 
They  were  barely  clearing  the  church  spires. 
On  they  came,  their  wedge  wide  and  straggling, 
until  almost  over  me,  when  something  happened. 
The  gander  in  the  lead  faltered  and  swerved, 
the  wedge  lines  wavered,  the  flock  rushed  to- 
gether in  confusion,  wheeled,  dropped,  then 
broke  apart,  and  honking  wildly,  turned  back 
toward  the  bay. 

It  was  instant  and  complete  demoralization. 
A  stronger  gander,  I  think,  could  have  led  the 
wedge  unbroken  over  the  city  to  some  neigh- 
boring pond,  where  the  weakest  of  the  stragglers, 
however,  must  have  fallen  from  sheer  exhaustion. 

Scaling  lower  and  lower  across  the  roofs,  the 
[15] 


flock  had  reached  the  center  of  the  city  and  had 
driven  suddenly  into  the  roar  and  confusion  of 
the  streets.  Weary  from  the  heat,  they  were 
dismayed  at  the  noise,  their  leader  faltered,  and, 
at  a  stroke,  the  great  flying  wedge  went  to 
pieces. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  life  of  birds  quite  so 
stirring  to  the  imagination  as  their  migration : 
the  sight  of  gathering  swallows,  the  sudden  ap- 
pearance of  strange  warblers,  the  call  of  passing 
plovers— all  are  suggestive  of  instincts,  move- 
ments, and  highways  that  are  unseen,  unaccount- 
able, and  full  of  mystery.  Little  wonder  that 
the  most  thrilling  poem  ever  written  to  a  bird 
begins : 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

The  question,  the  mystery  in  that  "certain 
flight "  I  never  felt  so  vividly  as  from  my  roof. 
Here  I  have  often  heard  the  reed-birds  and  the 
water-fowl  passing.  Sometimes  I  have  heard 
them  going  over  in  the  dark.  One  night  I  re- 

[16] 


member  particularly,  the  sky  and  the  air  were 
so  clear  and  the  geese  so  high  in  the  blue. 

Over  the  fields  and  wide  silent  marshes  such 
passing  is  strange  enough.  But  here  I  stood 
above  a  sleeping  city  of  men,  and  far  above  me, 
so  far  that  I  could  only  hear  them,  holding  their 
northward  way  through  the  starlit  sky,  they 
passed— whither?  and  how  guided?  Was  the 
shining  dome  of  the  State  House  a  beacon?  Did 
they  mark  the  light  at  Marblehead? 


[17] 


THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  WOODCHUCK 

.  .  .  the  chylde  may  Rue  that  ys  vn-born,  it  wos  the 
mor  pitte. 

THERE  was  murder  in  my  heart.  The  wood- 
chuck  knew  it.  He  never  had  had  a 
thought  before,  but  he  had  one  now.  It  came 
hard  and  heavily,  yet  it  arrived  in  time  ;  and  it 
was  not  a  slow  thought  for  a  woodchuck,  either 
—just  a  trifle  better,  indeed,  than  my  own. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  caught  the  wood- 
chuck  away  from  his  hole.     He  had  left  his  old 
burrow  in  the  huckleberry  hillside,  and  dug  a 
new  hole  under  one  of  my  young  peach-trees. 
[21] 


I  had  made  no  objection  to  his  huckleberry  hole. 
He  used  to  come  down  the  hillside  and  waddle 
into  the  orchard  in  broad  day,  free  to  do  and  go 
as  he  pleased ;  but  not  since  he  began  to  dig 
under  the  peach-tree. 

I  discovered  this  new  hole  when  it  was  only  a 
foot  deep,  and  promptly  filled  it  with  stones. 
The  next  morning  the  stones  were  out  and  the 
cavity  two  feet  deeper.  I  filled  it  up  again, 
driving  a  large  squarish  piece  of  rock  into  the 
mouth,  tight,  certainly  stopping  all  further 
work,  as  I  thought. 

There  are  woodchucks  that  you  can  discourage 
and  there  are  those  that  you  can't.  Three  days 
later  the  piece  of  rock  and  the  stones  were  piled 
about  the  butt  of  the  tree  and  covered  with 
fresh  earth,  .while  the  hole  ran  in  out  of  sight, 
with  the  woodchuck,  apparently,  at  the  bottom 
of  it. 

I  had  tried  shutting  him  out,  now  I  would  try 
shutting  him  in.  It  was  cruel— it  would  have 
been  to  anything  but  a  woodchuck ;  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself  for  doing  it,  and  went  back 
the  following  day,  really  hoping  to  find  the 
burrow  open. 

[22] 


Never  again  would  I  worry  over  an  impris- 
oned woodchuck  ;  but  then  I  should  never  again 
try  to  destroy  a  woodchuck  by  walling  up  his 
hole,  any  more  than  Br'er  Fox  would  try  to 
punish  the  rabbit  by  slinging  him  a  second  time 
into  the  brier-patch. 

The  burrow  was  wide  open.  I  had  stuffed 
and  rammed  the  rocks  into  it,  and  buried  deep 
in  its  mouth  the  body  of  another  woodchuck  ' 
that  my  neighbor's  dog  had  killed.  All  was 
cleared  away.  The  deceased  relative  was  gone— 
where  and  how  I  know  not ;  the  stones  were 
scattered  on  the  farther  side  of  the  tree,  and  the 
passage  neatly  swept  of  all  loose  sand  and 
pebbles. 

Clearly  the  woodchuck  had  come  to  stay.  I 
meant  that  he  should  move.  I  could  get  him 
into  a  steel  trap,  for  his  wits  are  not  abiding ; 
they  come  only  on  occasion.  Woodchuck  lives 
too  much  in  the  ground  and  too  constantly 
beside  his  own  door  to  grow  very  wise.  He  can 
always  be  trapped.  So  can  any  one's  enemy. 
You  can  always  murder.  But  no  gentleman 
strikes  from  behind.  I  hate  the  steel  trap.  I 
have  set  my  last  one.  They  would  be  bitter 
[23] 


peaches  on  that  tree  if  they  cost  the  woodchuck 
what  I  have  seen  more  than  one  woodchuck 
suffer  in  the  horrible  jaws  of  such  a  trap. 

But  is  it  not  perfectly  legitimate  and  gentle- 
manly to  shoot  such  a  woodchuck  to  save  one's 
peaches?  Certainly.  So  I  got  the  gun  and 
waited— and  waited— and  waited.  Did  you  ever 
wait  with  a  gun  until  a  woodchuck  came  out  of 
his  hole?  I  never  did.  A  woodchuck  has  just 
sense  enough  to  go  into  his  hole — and  stay  in. 

There  were  too  many  woodchucks  about  and 
my  days  were  too  precious  for  me  to  spend  any 
considerable  part  of  my  summer  watching  with 
a  gun  for  this  one.  Besides,  I  have  been  known 
to  fire  and  miss  a  woodchuck,  anyway. 

So  I  gave  up  the  gun.  It  was  while  thinking 
what  I  could  do  next  that  I  came  down  the  row 
of  young  peach-trees  and  spied  the  woodchuck 
out  in  the  orchard,  fifty  yards  away  from  his 
hole.  He  spied  me  at  the  same  instant,  and 
rose  upon  his  haunches. 

At  last  we  were  face  to  face.     The  time  had 

come.     It  would  be  a  fight  to  the  finish ;  and  a 

fair  fight,  too,  for  all  that  I  had  about  me  in  the 

way  of  weapons  was  a  pair  of  heavy,  knee-high 

[24] 


hunting-boots,  that  I  had  put  on  against  the 
dew  of  the  early  morning.  All  my  thought  and 
energy,  all  my  hope,  centered  immediately  in 
those  boots. 

The  woodchuck  kept  his  thoughts  in  his  head. 
Into  his  heels  he  put  what  speed  he  had ;  and 
little  as  that  was,  it  counted,  pieced  out  with  the 
head-work. 

Back  in  my  college  days  I  ran  a  two-mile  race 
— the  greatest  race  of  the  day,  the  judges  said — 
and  just  at  the  tape  lost  two  gold  medals  and 
the  glory  of  a  new  intercollegiate  record  because 
I  did  n't  use  my  head.  Two  of  us  out  of  twenty 
finished,  and  we  finished  together,  the  other  fel- 
low twisting  and  falling  forward,  breaking  the 
string  with  his  side,  while  I,  pace  for  pace  with 
him— did  n't  think. 

For  a  moment  the  woodchuck  and  I  stood 
motionless,  he  studying  the  situation.  I  was  at 
the  very  mouth  of  his  burrow.  It  was  coming 
to  sure  death  for  him  to  attempt  to  get  in.  Yet  it 
was  sure  death  if  he  did  not  get  in,  for  I  should 
run  him  down. 

Had  you  been  that  woodchuck,  gentle  reader, 
I  wonder  if  you  would  have  taken  account  of 
[25] 


the  thick-strewn  stones  behind  you,  the  dense 
tangle  of  dewberry-vines  off  on  your  left,  the 
heavy  boots  of  your  enemy  and  his  unthinking 
rage? 

I  was  vastly  mistaken  in  that  woodchuck.  A 
blanker,  flabbier  face  never  looked  into  mine. 
Only  the  sudden  appearance  of  death  could  have 
brought  the  trace  of  intelligence  across  it  that  I 
caught  as  the  creature  dropped  on  all  fours  and 
began  to  wabble  straight  away  from  me  over  the 
area  of  rough,  loose  stones. 

With  a  jump  and  a  yell  I  was  after  him,  mak- 
ing five  yards  to  his  one.  He  tumbled  along  the 
best  he  could,  and,  to  my  great  surprise,  directly 
away  from  his  hole.  It  was  steep  downhill. 
I  should  land  upon  him  in  half  a  dozen  bounds 
more. 

On  we  went,  reckless  of  the  uneven  ground, 
momentum  increasing  with  every  jump,  until, 
accurately  calculating  his  speed  and  the  chang- 
ing distance  between  us,  I  rose  with  a  mighty 
leap,  sailed  into  the  air  and  came  down— just  an 
inch  too  far  ahead— on  a  round  stone,  turned  my 
ankle,  and  went  sprawling  over  the  woodchuck 
in  a  heap. 

[26] 


The  woodchuck  spilled  himself  from  under  me, 
slid  short  about,  and  tumbled  off  for  home  by 
way  of  the  dewberry-patch. 

He  had  made  a  good  start  before  I  was  righted 
and  again  in  motion.  Now  it  was  steep,  very 
steep,  uphill— which  did  not  seem  to  matter 
much  to  the  woodchuck,  but  made  a  great  differ- 
ence to  me.  Then,  too,  I  had  counted  on  a 
simple,  straightaway  dash,  and  had  not  saved 
myself  for  this  lap  and  climbing  home-stretch. 

Still  I  was  gaining,— more  slowly  this  time,— 
with  chances  yet  good  of  overtaking  him  short 
of  the  hole,  when,  in  the  thick  of  the  dewberry- 
vines,  I  tripped,  lunged  forward  three  or  four 
stumbling  strides,  and  saw  the  woodchuck  turn 
sharp  to  the  right  in  a  bee-line  for  his  burrow. 

I  wheeled,  jumped,  cut  after  him,  caught 
him  on  the  toe  of  my  boot,  and  lifting  him, 
plopped  him  smoothly,  softly  into  his  hole. 

It  was  gently  done.  And  so  beautifully  !  The 
whole  feat  had  something  of  the  poetic  accuracy 
of  an  astronomical  calculation.  And  the  per- 
fectly lovely  dive  I  helped  him  make  home  ! 

I  sat  down  upon  his  mound  of  earth  to  get 
myself  together  and  to  enjoy  it  all.     What  a 
[27] 


woodchuck !  Perhaps  he  never  could  do  the 
trick  again ;  but,  then,  he  won't  need  to.  All 
the  murder  was  gone  from  my  heart.  He  had 
beaten  the  boots.  He  had  beaten  them  so  neatly, 
so  absolutely,  that  simple  decency  compelled  me 
then  and  there  to  turn  over  that  Crawford  peach- 
tree,  root  and  stem,  to  the  woodchuck,  his  heirs 
and  assigns  forever. 

By  way  of  celebration  he  has  thrown  out 
nearly  a  cart-load  of  sand  from  somewhere  be- 
neath the  tree,  deepening  and  enlarging  his 
home.  My  Swedish  neighbor,  viewing  the  hole 
recently,  exclaimed :  "Dose  vuudshuck,  I  t'ink 
him  kill  dem  dree  ! "  Perhaps  so.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, the  tree  grows  on  without  a  sign  of  hurt. 

But  suppose  the  tree  does  die  1  Well,  there  is 
no  certainty  of  its  bearing  good  fruit.  There 
was  once  a  peddler  of  trees,  a  pious  man  and  a 
Quaker,  who  made  a  mistake,  selling  the  wrong 
tree.  Besides,  there  are  other  trees  in  the 
orchard  ;  and,  if  necessary,  I  can  buy  peaches. 

Yes,  but  what  if  other  woodchucks  should  seek 
other  roof-trees  in  the  peach  row?  They  won't. 
There  are  no  fashions,  no  such  emulations,  out- 
of-doors.  Because  one  woodchuck  moves  from 
[28] 


huckleberries  to  a  peach-tree  is  no  sign  that  all 
the  woodchucks  on  the  hillside  are  going  to  for- 
sake the  huckleberries  with  him.  Only  humans 
are  silly  enough  for  that. 

If  the  woodchucks  should  come,  all  of  them,  it 
would  be  extremely  interesting— an  event  worth 
many  peaches. 


[29] 


THKEE   SEKMONS 


THEEE   SERMONS 
I 

Thou  shalt  not  preach. 

rilHE  woods  were  as  empty  as  some  great 
JL  empty  house ;  they  were  hollow  and  silent 
and  somber.  I  stood  looking  in  among  the  leaf- 
less trees,  heavy  in  spirit  at  the  quiet  and  gloom, 
when  close  by  my  side  spoke  a  tiny  voice.  I 
started,  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly  it  broke 
into  the  wide  December  silence,  so  far  it  echoed 
through  the  empty  forest  halls. 

"What ! "  I  exclaimed,  turning  in  my  tracks 
3  [33] 


and  addressing  a  small  brown-leafed  beech. 
"What!  little  Hyla,  are  you  still  out?  You! 
with  a  snow-storm  brewing  and  St.  Nick  due 
here  to-morrow  night?  "  And  then  from  within 
the  bush,  or  on  it,  or  under  it,  or  over  it,  came 
an  answer,  Peep,  peep,  peep !  small  and  shrill, 
dropping  into  the  silence  of  the  woods  and  stir- 
ring it  as  three  small  pebbles  might  drop  into 
the  middle  of  a  wide  sleeping  pond. 

It  was  one  of  those  gray,  heavy  days  of  the 
early  winter— one  of  the  vacant,  spiritless  days 
of  portent  that  wait  hushed  and  numb  before  a 
coming  storm.  Not  a  crow,  nor  a  jay,  nor  a 
chickadee  had  heart  enough  to  cheep.  But  little 
Hyla,  the  tree-frog,  was  nothing  daunted.  Since 
the  last  week  in  February,  throughout  the 
spring  and  the  noisy  summer  on  till  this  dreary 
time,  he  had  been  cheerfully,  continuously  pip- 
ing. This  was  his  last  call. 

Peep,  peep,  peep  !  he  piped  in  February  ;  Peep, 
peep,  peep  !  in  August ;  Peep,  peep,  peep  !  in  De- 
cember. But  did  he  ? 

"He  did  just  that,"  replies  the  scientist,  "and 
that  only." 

"Not  at  all,"  I  answer. 
[34] 


"What  authority  have  you?  "  he  asks.  "You 
are  not  scientific.  You  are  merely  a  dreaming, 
fooling  hanger-on  to  the  fields  and  woods ;  one 
of  those  who  are  forever  hearing  more  than  they 
hear,  and  seeing  more  than  they  see.  We  scien- 
tists hear  with  our  ears,  see  with  our  eyes,  feel 
with  our  fingers,  and  understand  with  our 
brains—" 

"Just  so,  just  so,"  I  interrupt,  "and  you  are  a 
worthy  but  often  a  pretty  stupid  set.  Little 
Hyla  in  February,  August,  and  December  cries 
Peep,  peep,  peep  I  to  you.  But  his  cry  to  me  in 
February  is  Spring,  spring,  spring  !  And  in  De- 
cember—it depends ;  for  I  cannot  see  with  my 
eyes  alone,  nor  hear  with  my  ears,  nor  feel  with 
my  fingers  only.  You  can,  and  so  could  Peter 
Bell.  To-day  I  saw  and  heard  and  felt  the 
world  all  gray  and  hushed  and  shrouded ;  and 
little  Hyla,  speaking  out  of  the  silence  and 
death,  called  Cheer,  cheer,  cheer  !  " 

II 

IT  is  not  because  the  gate  is  strait  and  the  way 

narrow  that  so  few  get  into  the  kingdom  of 

[35] 


the  Out-of-Doors.  The  gate  is  wide  and  the  way 
is  broad.  The  difficulty  is  that  most  persons  go 
in  too  fast. 

If  I  were  asked  what  virtue,  above  all  others, 
one  must  possess  in  order  to  be  shown  the  mys- 
teries of  the  kingdom  of  earth  and  sky,  I  should 
say,  there  are  several ;  I  should  not  know 
which  to  name  first.  There  are,  however,  two 
virtues  very  essential  and  very  hard  to  acquire, 
namely,  the  ability  to  keep  quiet  and  to  stand  still. 

Last  summer  a  fox  in  two  days  took  fifteen  of 
my  chickens.  I  saw  the  rascal  in  broad  day 
come  down  the  hill  to  the  chicken-yard.  I 
greatly  enjoy  the  sight  of  a  wild  fox  ;  but  fifteen 
chickens  a  sight  was  too  high  a  price.  So  I  got 
the  gun  and  chased  about  the  woods  half  the 
summer  for  another  glimpse  of  the  sinner's  red 
hide.  I  saw  him  one  Sunday  as  we  were  driving 
into  the  wood  road  from  church ;  but  never  a 
week-day  sight  for  all  my  chasing. 

Along  in  the  early  autumn  I  got  home  one 
evening  shortly  after  sundown.  I  had  left  sev- 
eral cocks  of  hay  spread  out  in  the  little  meadow, 
and  though  it  was  already  pretty  damp,  I  took 
the  fork,  went  down,  and  cocked  it  up. 
[36] 


Returning,  I  climbed  by  the  narrow,  winding 
path  through  the  pines,  out  into  the  corner  of 
my  pasture.  It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night, 
and  leaning  back  upon  the  short-handled  fork, 
I  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  the  pines  to  look  out 
over  the  softly  lighted  field. 

Off  in  the  woods  a  mile  away  sounded  the 
deep,  mellow  tones  of  two  foxhounds.  Day  and 
night  all  summer  long  I  had  heard  them,  and 
all  summer  long  I  had  hurried  to  this  knoll 
and  to  that  for  a  shot.  But  the  fox  always 
took  the  other  knoll. 

The  echoing  cries  of  the  dogs  through  the 
silent  woods  were  musical.  Soon  they  sounded 
sharp  and  clear— the  hounds  were  crossing  an 
open  stretch  leading  down  to  the  meadow  be- 
hind me.  As  I  leaned,  listening,  I  heard  near 
by  a  low,  uneasy  murmuring  from  a  covey  of 
quails  sleeping  in  the  brush  beside  the  path,  and 
before  I  had  time  to  think  what  it  meant,  a  fox 
trotted  up  the  path  I  had  just  climbed,  and 
halted  in  the  edge  of  the  shadows  directly  at 
my  feet. 

I  stood  as  stiff  as  a  post.  He  sniffed  at  my 
dew- wet  boots,  backed  away,  and  looked  me  over 
[37] 


curiously.  I  could  have  touched  him  with  my 
fork.  Then  he  sat  down  with  just  his  silver- 
tipped  brush  in  the  silver  moonlight,  to  study 
me  in  earnest. 

The  loud  baying  of  the  hounds  was  coming 
nearer.  How  often  I  had  heard  it,  and,  in  spite 
of  my  lost  chickens,  how  often  I  had  exclaimed, 
"Poor  little  tired  fox!"  But  here  sat  "poor 
little  tired  fox"  with  his  tongue  in  his  head, 
calmly  wondering  what  kind  of  stump  he  had 
run  up  against  this  time. 

I  could  only  dimly  see  his  eyes,  but  his  whole 
body  said  :  "I  can't  make  it  out,  for  it  does  n't 
move.  But  so  long  as  it  does  n't  move  I  sha'n't 
be  scared."  Then  he  trotted  to  this  side  and  to 
that  for  a  better  wind,  somewhat  afraid,  but 
much  more  curious. 

His  time  was  up,  however.  The  dogs  were 
yelping  across  the  meadow  on  his  warm  trail. 
Giving  me  a  last  unsatisfied  look,  he  dropped 
down  the  path,  directly  toward  the  dogs,  and 
sprang  lightly  off  into  the  thicket. 

The  din  of  their  own  voices  must  have  deaf- 
ened the  dogs,  or  they  would  have  heard  him. 
Round  and  round  they  circled,  giving  the  fox 
[38] 


ample  time  for  the  study  of  another  "stump" 
before  they  discovered  that  he  had  doubled  down 
the  path,  and  still  longer  time  before  they  crossed 
the  wide  scentless  space  of  his  side  jump  and 
once  more  fastened  upon  his  trail. 


Ill 


BACK  in  my  knickerbocker  days  I  once  went 
off  on  a  Sunday-school  picnic,  and  soon,  replete 
with  "Copenhagen,"  I  sauntered  into  the  woods 
alone  in  quest  of  less  cloying  sport.  I  had  not 
gone  far  when  I  picked  up  a  dainty  little  ribbon- 
snake,  and  having  no  bag  or  box  along,  I  rolled 
him  up  in  my  handkerchief,  and  journeyed  on 
with  the  wiggling  reptile  safely  caged  on  top  of 
my  head  under  my  tight-fitting  hat. 

After  a  time  I  began  to  feel  a  peculiar  move- 
ment under  the  hat,  not  exactly  the  crawling  of 
a  normal  snake,  but  more  like  that  of  a  snake 
with  legs.  Those  were  the  days  when  all  my 
soul  was  bent  on  the  discovery  of  a  new  species — 
of  anything ;  when  the  whole  of  life  meant  a 
journey  to  the  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences 
with  something  to  be  named.  For  just  an  in- 
[39] 


stant  flashed  the  hope  that  I  had  found  an  un- 
cursed  snake,  one  of  the  original  ones  that  went 
on  legs.  I  reached  for  the  hat,  bent  over,  and 
pulled  it  off,  and,  lo  !  not  a  walking  snake.  Just 
an  ordinary  snake,  but  with  it  a  live  wood- 
frog  ! 

This,  at  least,  was  interesting,  the  only  real 
piece  of  magic  I  have  ever  done.  Into  my  hat 
had  gone  only  a  live  snake,  now  I  brought  forth 
the  snake  and  a  live  frog.  This  was  a  snake  to 
conjure  with  ;  so  I  tied  him  up  again  and  finally 
got  him  home. 

The  next  Sunday  the  minister  preached  a 
temperance  sermon,  in  which  he  said  some 
dreadful  things  about  snakes.  The  creatures  do 
seem  in  some  dark,  horrible  way  to  lurk  in  the 
dregs  of  strong  drink  :  but  the  minister  was  not 
discriminating ;  he  was  too  fierce  and  sweeping, 
saying,  among  other  things,  that  there  was  a 
universal  human  hatred  for  snakes,  and  that  one 
of  the  chief  purposes  of  the  human  heel  was  to 
bruise  their  scaly  heads. 

I  was  not  born  of  my  Quaker  mother  to  share 
this  "universal  human  hatred  for  snakes  "  ;  but 
I  did  get  from  her  a  wild  dislike  for  sweeping, 
[40] 


general  statements.  After  the  sermon  I  ven- 
tured to  tell  the  preacher  that  there  was  an  ex- 
ception to  this  "universal"  rule  ;  that  all  snakes 
were  not  adders  and  serpents,  but  some  were 
just  innocent  snakes,  and  that  I  had  a  collection 
of  tame  ones  which  I  wished  he  would  come  out 
to  see. 

He  looked  astonished,  skeptical,  then  pained. 
It  was  during  the  days,  I  think,  of  my  "proba- 
tion," and  into  his  anxious  heart  had  come  the 
thought,  Was  I  "  running  well "  ?  But  he  dis- 
missed the  doubt  and  promised  to  walk  over  in 
the  morning. 

His  interest  amazed  me.  But,  then,  preachers 
quite  commonly  are  different  on  Monday.  As 
we  went  from  cage  to  cage,  he  said  he  had  read 
how  boa-constrictors  ea,t,  and  would  n't  I  show 
him  how  these  snakes  eat  ? 

We  had  come  to  the  cage  of  the  little  ribbon- 
snake  from  the  picnic  grove,  and  had  arrived 
just  in  time  to  catch  him  crawling  away  out  of 
a  hole  that  he  had  worked  in  the  rusty  mosquito- 
netting  wire  of  the  cover.  I  caught  him,  put 
him  back,  and  placed  a  brickbat  over  the  hole. 

I  knew  that  this  snake  was  hungry,  because 
[41] 


he  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  nearly  a  week, 
and  the  frog  which  appeared  so  mysteriously 
with  him  in  my  hat  was  the  dinner  that  he  had 
given  up  that  day  of  his  capture  in  his  effort  to 
escape. 

The  minister  looked  on  without  a  tremor.  I 
took  off  the  brick  that  he  might  see  the  better. 
The  snake  was  very  long  and  small  around  and 
the  toad,  which  I  had  given  him,  was  very  short 
and  big  around,  so  that  when  it  was  all  over 
there  was  a  bunch  in  the  middle  of  the  snake 
comparable  to  the  lump  a  prime  watermelon 
would  make  in  the  middle  of  a  small  boy  if 
swallowed  whole. 

"While  we  were  still  watching,  the  snake, 
having  comfortably  (for  a  snake)  breakfasted, 
saw  the  hole  uncovered  and  stuck  out  his  head. 
We  made  no  move.  Slowly,  cautiously,  with  his 
eye  upon  us,  he  glided  out,  up  to  the  big  bunch 
of  breakfast  in  his  middle.  This  stuck.  Fran- 
tically he  squirmed,  whirled,  and  lashed  about, 
but  in  vain.  He  could  not  pull  through.  He 
had  eaten  too  much. 

There  was  just  one  thing  for  him  to  do  if  he 
would  be  free :  give  up  the  breakfast  of  toad 
[42] 


(which  is  much  better  fare  according  to  snake 
standards  than  pottage  according  to  ours),  as  he 
had  given  up  the  dinner  of  frog.  Would  he  sell 
his  birthright ! 

Perhaps  a  snake  cannot  calculate  ;  perhaps  he 
knows  no  conflict  of  emotions.  Yet  something 
very  like  these  processes  seemed  to  go  on  within 
the  scaly  little  reptile.  He  ceased  all  violent 
struggle,  laid  his  length  upon  the  netting,  and 
seemed  to  think,  to  weigh  the  chances,  to  count 
the  cost. 

Soon  he  softly  drew  back  into  the  cage.  A 
series  of  severe  contortions  followed  j  the  ob- 
structing bunch  began  to  move  forward,  up,  far- 
ther and  farther,  until  at  last,  dazed,  squeezed, 
and  half  smothered,  but  entirely  alive  and  un- 
hurt, the  toad  appeared  and  once  more  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  blessed  light. 

The  snake  quickly  put  his  head  through  the 
hole,  slipped  out  again,  and  glided  away  into  his 
freedom.  He  had  earned  it.  The  toad  deserved 
his  liberty  too,  and  I  took  him  into  the  straw- 
berry-patch. 

The  minister  looked  on  at  it  all.     Perhaps  he 
did  n't  learn  anything.     But  I  did. 
[43] 


THE   MAKSH 


THE   MAKSH 

And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 


IT  was  a  late  June  day  whose  breaking  found 
me  upon  the  edge  of  the  great  salt-marshes 
which  lie  behind  East  Point  Light,  as  the  Dela- 
ware Bay  lies  in  front  of  it,  and  which  run  in  a 
wide,  half-land,  half-bay  border  down  the  cape. 
[47] 


I  followed  along  the  black  sandy  road  which 
goes  to  the  Light  until  close  to  the  old  Zane's 
Place, —the  last  farin-house  of  the  uplands,  —when 
I  turned  off  into  the  marsh  toward  the  river. 
The  mosquitos  rose  from  the  damp  grass  at 
every  step,  swarming  up  around  me  in  a  cloud, 
and  streaming  off  behind  like  a  comet's  tail, 
which  hummed  instead  of  glowed.  I  was  the 
only  male  among  them.  It  was  a  cloud  of  fe- 
males, the  nymphs  of  the  salt-marsh ;  and  all 
through  that  day  the  singing,  stinging,  smother- 
ing swarm  danced  about  me,  rested  upon  me, 
covered  me  whenever  I  paused,  so  that  my 
black  leggings  turned  instantly  to  a  mosquito 
brown,  and  all  my  dress  seemed  dyed  alike. 

Only  I  did  not  pause — not  often,  nor  long. 
The  sun  came  up  blisteringly  hot,  yet  on  I 
walked,  and  wore  my  coat,  my  hands  deep  down 
in  the  pockets  and  my  head  in  a  handkerchief. 
At  noon  I  was  still  walking,  and  kept  on  walk- 
ing till  I  reached  the  bay  shore,  when  a  breeze 
came  up,  and  drove  the  singing,  stinging  fairies 
back  into  the  grass,  and  saved  me. 

I  left  the  road  at  a  point  where  a  low  bank 
started  across  the  marsh  like  a  long  protecting 
[48] 


arm  reaching  out  around  the  hay-meadows, 
dragging  them  away  from  the  grasping  river, 
and  gathering  them  out  of  the  vast  undrained 
tract  of  coarse  sedges,  to  hold  them  to  the  up- 
land. Passing  along  the  bank  until  beyond  the 
weeds  and  scrub  of  the  higher  borders,  I  stood 
with  the  sky-bound,  bay-bound  green  beneath 
my  feet.  Far  across,  with  sails  gleaming  white 
against  the  sea  of  sedge,  was  a  schooner,  beating 
slowly  up  the  river.  Laying  my  course  by  her, 
I  began  to  beat  slowly  out  into  the  marsh 
through  the  heavy  sea  of  low,  matted  hay -grass. 
There  is  no  fresh-water  meadow,  no  inland 
plain,  no  prairie  with  this  rainy,  misty,  early 
morning  freshness  so  constant  on  the  marsh  ;  no 
other  reach  of  green  so  green,  so  a-glitter  with 
seas  of  briny  dew,  so  regularly,  unfailingly  fed  : 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels 
that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks 

and  the  low-lying  lanes, 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins  ! 

[49] 


I  imagine  a  Western  wheat-field,  half-way  to 
head,  could  look,  in  the  dew  of  morning,  some- 
what like  a  salt-marsh.  It  certainly  would 
have  at  times  the  purple-distance  haze,  that  at- 
mosphere of  the  sea  which  hangs  across  the 
marsh.  The  two  might  resemble  each  other  as 
two  pictures  of  the  same  -theme,  upon  the  same 
scale,  one  framed  and  hung,  the  other  not.  It  is 
the  framing,  the  setting  of  the  marsh  that  gives 
it  character,  variety,  tone,  and  its  touch  of 
mystery. 

For  the  marsh  reaches  back  to  the  higher 
lands  of  fences,  fields  of  corn,  and  ragged  forest 
blurs  against  the  hazy  horizon  ;  it  reaches  down  to 
the  river  of  the  reedy  flats,  coiled  like  a  serpent 
through  the  green  ;  it  reaches  away  to  the  sky 
where  the  clouds  anchor,  where  the  moon  rises, 
where  the  stars,  like  far-off  lighthouses,  gleam 
along  the  edge ;  and  it  reaches  out  to  the  bay, 
and  on,  beyond  the  white  surf-line  of  meeting, 
on,  beyond  the  line  where  the  bay's  blue  and 
the  sky's  blue  touch,  on,  far  on. 

Here  meet  land  and  river,  sky  and  sea ;  here 
they  mingle  and  make  the  marsh. 

A  prairie  rolls  and  billows ;  the  marsh  lies 
[50] 


still,  lies  as  even  as  a  sleeping  sea.  Yet  what 
moods  !  What  changes  !  What  constant  variety 
of  detail  everywhere  !  In  The  Marshes  of  Glynn 
there  was 

A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad 

in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light 

or  a  shade, 

but  not  in  these  Maurice  Kiver  marshes.  Here, 
to-day,  the  sun  was  blazing,  kindling  millions  of 
tiny  suns  in  the  salt- wet  blades ;  and  instead  of 
waist-high  grass,  there  lay  around  me  acres  and 
acres  of  the  fine  rich  hay -grass,  full-grown,  but 
without  a  blade  wider  than  a  knitting-needle  or 
taller  than  my  knee.  It  covered  the  marsh  like 
a  deep,  thick  fur,  like  a  wonderland  carpet  into 
whose  elastic,  velvety  pile  my  feet  sank  and 
sank,  never  quite  feeling  the  floor.  Here  and 
there  were  patches  of  higher  sedges,  green,  but 
of  differing  shades,  which  seemed  spread  upon 
the  grass  carpet  like  long-napped  rugs. 

Ahead  of  me  the  even  green  broke  suddenly 
over  a  shoal  of  sand  into  tall,  tufted  grasses,  into 
rose,  mallow,   and  stunted   persimmon   bushes, 
[51] 


foaming,  ou  nearer  view,  with  spreading  dog- 
bane blossoms.  Off  toward  the  bay  another  of 
these  shoals,  mole-hill  high  in  the  distance,  ran 
across  the  marsh  for  half  a  mile,  bearing  a  single 
broken  file  of  trees— sentinels  they  seemed,  some 
of  them  fallen,  others  gaunt  and  wind-beaten, 
watching  against  the  sea. 

These  were  the  lookouts  and  the  resting-places 
for  passing  birds.  During  the  day,  whenever  I 
turned  in  their  direction,  a  crow,  a  hawk,  or 
some  smaller  bird  was  seen  upon  their  dead 
branches. 

Naturally  the  variety  of  bird  life  upon  the 
marsh  is  limited ;  but  there  is  by  no  means  the 
scarcity  here  which  is  so  often  noted  in  the  for- 
ests and  wild  prairies  of  corresponding  extent. 
Indeed,  the  marsh  was  birdy— rich  in  numbers 
if  not  in  species.  Underfoot,  in  spots,  sang  the 
marsh -wrens  ;  in  larger  patches  the  sharp-tailed 
sparrows  ;  and  almost  as  wide-spread  and  constant 
as  the  green  was  the  singing  of  the  seaside  spar- 
rows. Overhead  the  fish-hawks  crossed  frequently 
to  their  castle  nest  high  on  the  top  of  a  tall 
white  oak  along  the  laud  edge  of  the  marsh  ;  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  sentinel  trees  a  pair  of 
[52] 


crows  were  busy  trying  (it  seemed  to  me)  to 
find  an  oyster,  a  crab— something  big  enough  to 
choke,  for  just  one  minute,  the  gobbling,  gulping 
clamor  of  their  infant  brood.  But  the  dear  de- 
vouring monsters  could  not  be  choked,  though 
once  or  twice  I  thought  by  their  strangling  cries 
that  father  crow,  in  sheer  desperation,  had 
brought  them  oysters  with  the  shells  on.  Their 
awful  gaggings  died  away  at  dusk.  Besides  the 
crows  and  fish-hawks,  a  harrier  would  now  and 
then  come  skimming  close  along  the  grass.  Higher 
up,  the  turkey-buzzards  circled  all  day  long ; 
and  once,  setting  my  blood  leaping  and  the  fish- 
hawks  screaming,  there  sailed  over,  far  away  in 
the  blue,  a  bald-headed  eagle,  his  snowy  neck 
and  tail  flashing  in  the  sunlight  as  he  careened 
among  the  clouds. 

In  its  blended  greens  the  marsh  that  morning 
offered  one  of  the  most  satisfying  drinks  of  color 
my  eyes  ever  tasted.  The  areas  of  different 
grasses  were  often  acres  in  extent,  so  that  the 
tints,  shading  from  the  lightest  pea-green  of  the 
thinner  sedges  to  the  blue-green  of  the  rushes,  to 
the  deep  emerald-green  of  the  hay-grass,  merged 
across  their  broad  bands  into  perfect  harmony. 
[53] 


As  fresh  and  vital  as  the  color  was  the  breath 
of  the  marsh.  There  is  no  bank  of  violets  steal- 
ing and  giving  half  so  sweet  an  odor  to  my  nos- 
trils, outraged  by  a  winter  of  city  smells,  as  the 
salty,  spray-laden  breath  of  the  marsh.  It  seems 
fairly  to  line  the  lungs  with  ozone.  I  know  how 
grass-fed  cattle  feel  at  the  smell  of  salt.  I  have 
the  concentrated  thirst  of  a  whole  herd  when  I 
catch  that  first  whiff  of  the  marshes  after  a  win- 
ter, a  year  it  may  be,  of  unsalted  inland  air. 
The  smell  of  it  stampedes  me.  I  gallop  to  meet 
it,  and  drink,  drink,  drink  deep  of  it,  my  blood 
running  redder  with  every  draught. 


II 


I  HAD  waded  out  into  the  meadow  perhaps 
two  hundred  yards,  leaving  a  dark  bruised  trail 
in  the  grass,  when  I  came  upon  a  nest  of  the 
long-billed  marsh-wren.  It  was  a  bulky  house, 
and  so  overburdened  its  frail  sedge  supports  that 
it  lay  almost  upon  the  ground,  with  its  little 
round  doorway  wide  open  to  the  sun  and  rain. 
They  must  have  been  a  young  couple  who  built 
it,  and  quite  inexperienced.  I  wonder  they  had 
[54] 


not  abandoned  it ;  for  a  crack  of  light  into  a 
wren's  nest  would  certainly  addle  the  eggs. 
They  are  such  tiny,  dusky,  tucked-away  things, 
and  their  cradle  is  so  deep  and  dark  and  hidden. 
There  were  no  fatalities,  I  am  sure,  following 
my  efforts  to  prop  the  leaning  structure,  though 
the  wrens  were  just  as  sure  that  it  was  all  a 
fatality— utterly  misjudging  my  motives.  As  a 
rule,  I  have  never  been  able  to  help  much  in 
such  extremities.  Either  I  arrive  too  late,  or 
else  I  blunder. 

I  thought,  for  a  moment,  that  it  was  the  nest 
of  the  long-billed's  cousin,  the  short-billed  marsh- 
wren,  that  I  had  found — which  would  have 
been  a  gem  indeed,  with  pearly  eggs  instead  of 
chocolate  ones.  Though  I  was  out  for  the  mere 
joy  of  being  out,  I  had  really  come  with  a  hope 
of  discovering  this  mousy  mite  of  a  wren,  and  of 
watching  her  ways.  It  was  like  hoping  to  watch 
the  ways  of  the  "wunk."  Several  times  I  have 
been  near  these  little  wrens ;  but  what  chance 
has  a  pair  of  human  eyes  with  a  skulking  four 
inches  of  brownish  streaks  and  bars  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  marsh  !  Such  birds  are  the  everlasting 
despair  of  the  naturalist,  the  salt  of  his  earth. 
[55] 


The  belief  that  a  pair  of  them  dwelt  somewhere 
in  this  green  expanse,  that  I  might  at  any  step 
come  upon  them,  made  me  often  forget  the 
mosquitos. 

When  I  reached  the  ridge  of  rose  and  mallow 
bushes,  two  wrens  began  muttering  in  the  grass 
with  different  notes  and  tones  from  those  of  the 
long-billed.  I  advanced  cautiously.  Soon  one 
flashed  out  and  whipped  back  among  the  thick 
stems  again,  exposing  himself  just  long  enough 
to  show  me  stellaris,  the  little  short-billed  wren 
I  was  hunting. 

I  tried  to  stand  still  for  a  second  glimpse  and 
a  clue  to  the  nest ;  but  the  mosquitos  !  Things 
have  come  to  a  bad  pass  with  the  bird-hunter, 
whose  only  gun  is  an  opera-glass,  when  he  can- 
not stand  stock-still  for  an  hour.  His  success 
depends  upon  his  ability  to  take  root.  He 
needs  light  feet,  a  divining  mind,  and  many 
other  things,  but  most  of  all  he  needs  patience. 
There  are  few  mortals,  however,  with  mosquito- 
proof  patience— one  that  would  stand  the  test 
here.  Remembering  a  meadow  in  New  England 
where  stellaris  nested,  I  concluded  to  wait  till 
chance  took  me  thither,  and  passed  on. 
[56] 


This  ridge  of  higher  ground  proved  to  be  a 
mosquito  roost— a  thousand  here  to  one  in  the 
deeper,  denser  grass.  As  I  hurried  across  I 
noted  with  great  satisfaction  that  the  pink-white 
blossoms  of  the  spreading  dogbane  were  covered 
with  mosquito  carcasses.  It  lessened  my  joy 
somewhat  to  find.,  upon  examination,  that  all 
the  victims  were  males.  Either  they  had  drunk 
poison  from  the  flowers,  or  else,  and  more  likely, 
they  had  been  unable  to  free  their  long-haired 
antennae  from  the  sticky  honey  into  which  they 
had  dipped*their  innocent  beaks.  Several  single 
flowers  had  trapped  three,  and  from  one  blossom 
I  picked  out  five.  If  we  could  bring  the  dog- 
bane to  brew  a  cup  which  would  be  fatal  to  the 
females,  it  might  be  a  good  plant  to  raise  in  our 
gardens  along  with  the  eucalyptus  and  the  cas- 
tor-oil plants. 

Everywhere  as  I  went  along,  from  every 
stake,  every  stout  weed  and  topping  bunch  of 
grass,  trilled  the  seaside  sparrows— a  weak, 
husky,  monotonous  song,  of  five  or  six  notes,  a 
little  like  the  chippy's,  more  tuneful,  perhaps, 
but  not  so  strong.  They  are  dark,  dusky  birds, 
of  a  grayish  olive-green  hue,  with  a  conspicuous 
[57] 


yellow  line  before  the  eye,  and  yellow  upon  the 
shoulder. 

There  seems  to  be  a  sparrow  of  some  kind  for 
every  variety  of  land  between  the  poles.  Moun- 
tain-tops, seaside  marshes,  inland  prairies, 
swamps,  woods,  pastures— everywhere,  from  In- 
dian River  to  the  Yukon,  a  sparrow  nests.  Yet 
one  can  hardly  associate  sparrows  with  marshes, 
for  they  seem  out  of  place  in  houseless,  treeless, 
half-submerged  stretches.  These  are  the  haunts 
of  the  shyer,  more  secretive  birds.  Here  the 
ducks,  rails,  bitterns,  coots,— birds  that  can 
wade  and  swim,  eat  frogs  and  crabs,— seem  natu- 
rally at  home.  The  sparrows  are  perchers,  grain- 
eaters,  free-fliers,  and  singers ;  and  they,  of  all 
birds,  are  the  friends  and  neighbors  of  man.  . 
This  is  no  place  for  them. .  The  effect  of  this 
marsh  life  upon  the  flight  and  song  of  these  two 
species  was  very  marked.  Both  showed  unmis- 
takable vocal  powers  which  long  ago  would  have 
been  developed  under  the  stimulus  of  human 
listeners ;  and  during  all  my  stay  (so  long  have 
they  crept  and  skulked  about  through  the  low 
marsh  paths)  I  did  not  see  one  rise  a  hundred 
feet  into  the  air,  nor  fly  straight  away  for  a 
[58] 


hundred  yards.  They  would  get  up  just  above 
the  grass,  and  flutter  and  drop— a  puttering, 
short-winded,  apoplectic  struggle,  very  unbe- 
coming and  unworthy. 

By  noon  I  had  completed  a  circle  and  re- 
crossed  the  lighthouse  road  in  the  direction  of 
the  bay.  A  thin  sheet  of  lukewarm  water  lay 
over  all  this  section.  The  high  spring  tides  had 
been  reinforced  by  unusually  heavy  rains  during 
April  and  May,  giving  a  great  area  of  pasture 
and  hay  land  back,  for  that  season,  to  the  sea. 
Descending  a  copsy  dune  from  the  road,  I  sur- 
prised a  brood  of  young  killdeers  feeding  along 
the  drift  at  the  edge  of  the  wet  meadow.  They 
ran  away  screaming,  leaving  behind  a  pair  of 
spotted  sandpipers,  "till-tops,"  that  had  been 
wading  with  them  in  the  shallow  water.  The 
sandpipers  teetered  on  for  a  few  steps,  then  rose 
at  my  approach,  scaled  nervously  out  over  the 
drowned  grass,  and,  circling,  alighted  near  where 
they  had  taken  wing,  continuing  instantly  with 
their  hunt,  and  calling  Tweet-tweet,  tweet-tweet, 
and  teetering,  always  teetering,  as  they  tiptoed 
along. 

If  perpetual  motion  is  still  a  dream  of  the 
[59] 


physicist,  he  might  get  an  idea  by  carefully  ex- 
amining the  way  the  body  of  till-top  is  balanced 
on  its  needle  legs.  If  till-tops  have  not  been 
tilting  forever,  and  shall  not  go  on  tilting  for- 
ever, it  is  because  something  is  wrong  with  the 
mechanism  of  the  world  outside  their  little 
spotted  bodies.  Surely  the  easiest,  least  willed 
motion  in  all  the  universe  is  this  sandpiper's 
teeter,  teeter,  teeter,  as  it  hurries  peering  and 
prying  along  the  shore. 

Killdeers  and  sandpipers  are  noisy  birds  ;  and 
one  would  know,  after  half  a  day  upon  the 
marsh,  even  if  he  had  never  seen  these  birds 
before,  that  they  could  not  have  been  bred  here. 
For  however 

candid  and  simple  and  nothing-withholding  and 
free 

the  marsh  may  seem  to  one  coming  suddenly 
from  the  wooded  uplands,  it  will  not  let  one 
enter  far  without  the  consciousness  that  silence 
and  secrecy  lie  deeper  here  than  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest  glooms.  The  true  birds  of  the 
marsh,  those  that  feed  and  nest  in  the  grass, 
have  the  spirit  of  the  great  marsh-mother. 
[60] 


The  sandpiper  is  not  her  bird.  It  belongs  to 
the  shore,  living  almost  exclusively  along  sandy, 
pebbly  margins,  the  margins  of  any,  of  almost 
every  water,  from  Delaware  Bay  to  the  tiny 
bubbling  spring  in  some  Minnesota  pasture. 
Neither  is  the  killdeer  her  bird.  The  upland 
claims  it,  plover  though  it  be.  A  barren,  stony 
hillside,  or  even  a  last  year's  corn-field  left  fal- 
low, is  a  better-loved  breast  to  the  killdeer  than 
the  soft  brooding  breast  of  the  marsh.  There 
are  no  grass-birds  so  noisy  as  these  two.  Both 
of  them  lay  their  eggs  in  pebble  nests  ;  and  both 
depend  largely  for  protection  upon  the  harmony 
of  their  colors  with  the  general  tone  of  their 
surroundings. 

I  was  still  within  sound  of  the  bleating  kill- 
deers  when  a  rather  large,  greenish-gray  bird 
flapped  heavily  but  noiselessly  from  a  muddy 
spot  in  the  grass  to  the  top  of  a  stake  and  faced 
me.  Here  was  a  child  of  the  marsh.  Its  bolt- 
upright  attitude  spoke  the  watcher  in  the  grass ; 
then  as  it  stretched  its  neck  toward  me,  bringing 
its  body  parallel  to  the  ground,  how  the  shape 
of  the  skulker  showed  !  This  bird  was  not  built 
to  fly  nor  to  perch,  but  to  tread  the  low,  narrow 
[61] 


paths  of  the  marsh  jungle,  silent,  swift,  and  elu- 
sive as  a  shadow. 

It  was  the  clapper-rail,  the  "marsh-hen."  One 
never  finds  such  a  combination  of  long  legs,  long 
toes,  long  neck  and  bill,  with  this  long  but  heavy 
hen-like  body,  outside  the  meadows  and  marshes. 
The  grass  ought  to  have  been  alive  with  the 
birds :  it  was  breeding-time.  But  I  think  the 
high  tides  must  have  delayed  them  or  driven 
them  elsewhere,  for  I  did  not  find  an  egg,  nor 
hear  at  nightfall  their  colony-cry,  so  common  at 
dusk  and  dawn  in  the  marshes  just  across  on  the 
coast  about  Townsend's  Inlet.  There  at  sunset 
in  nesting-time  one  of  the  rails  will  begin  to  call 
—a  loud,  clapping  roll ;  a  neighbor  takes  it  up, 
then  another  and  another,  the  circle  of  cries 
widening  and  swelling  until  the  whole  marsh  is 
a-clatter. 

Heading  my  way  with  a  slow,  labored  stroke 
came  one  of  the  fish-hawks.  She  was  low  down 
and  some  distance  away,  so  that  I  got  behind  a 
post  before  she  saw  me.  The  marsh-hen  spied 
her  first,  and  dropped  into  the  grass.  On  she 
came,  her  white  breast  and  belly  glistening,  and 
in  her  talons  a  big  glistening  fish.  It  was  a 
[62] 


magnificent  catch.  "  Bravo ! "  I  should  have 
shouted— rather  I  should  n't;  but  here  she  was 
right  over  me,  and  the  instinct  of  the  boy,  of  the 
savage,  had  me  before  I  knew,  and  leaping  out, 
I  whirled  my  cap  and  yelled  to  wake  the  marsh. 
The  startled  hawk  jerked,  keeled,  lifted  with  a 
violent  struggle,  and  let  go  her  hold.  Down  fell 
the  writhing,  twisting  fish  at  my  feet.  It  was  a 
splendid  striped  bass,  weighing  at  least  four 
pounds,  and  still  live  enough  to  flop. 

I  felt  mean  as  I  picked  up  the  useless  thing 
and  looked  far  away  to  the  great  nest  with  its 
hungry  young.  I  was  no  better  than  the  bald 
eagle,  the  lazy  robber-baron,  who  had  stolen  the 
dinner  of  these  same  young  hawks  the  day  before. 

Their  mother  had  been  fishing  up  the  river 
and  had  caught  a  tremendous  eel.  An  eel  can 
hold  out  to  wriggle  a  very  long  time.  He  has 
no  vitals.  Even  with  talon-tipped  claws  he  is 
slippery  and  more  than  a  clawful ;  so  the  old 
hawk  took  a  short  cut  home  across  the  railroad- 
track  and  the  corner  of  the  woods  where  stands 
the  eagle  tree. 

She  could  barely  clear  the  tree-tops,  and,  with 
the  squirming  of  the  eel  about  her  legs,  had 
[63] 


apparently  forgotten  that  the  eagle  lived  along 
this  road,  or  else  in  her  struggle  to  get  the  prize 
home  she  was  risking  the  old  dragon's  being 
away.  He  was  not  away.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  had  been  watching  her  all  the  time  from 
some  high  perch,  and  just  as  she  reached  the 
open  of  the  railroad-track,  where  the  booty 
would  not  fall  among  the  trees,  he  appeared. 
His  first  call,  mocking,  threatening,  commanding, 
shot  the  poor  hawk  through  with  terror.  She 
screamed ;  she  tried  to  rise  and  escape ;  but 
without  a  second's  parley  the  great  king  drove 
down  upon  her.  She  dropped  the  fish,  dived,  and 
dodged  the  blow,  and  the  robber,  with  a  rushing 
swoop  that  was  glorious  in  its  sweep,  in  its  speed 
and  ease,  caught  the  eel  within  a  wing's  reach  of 
me  and  the  track. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  my  spoil. 
Somewhat  relieved,  upon  looking  around,  to  find 
that  even  the  marsh-hen  had  not  been  an  eye- 
witness to  my  knightly  deed,  I  started  with  the 
fish  and  my  conscience  toward  the  distant  nest, 
determined  to  climb  into  it  and  leave  the  catch 
with  the  helpless,  dinnerless  things  for  whom  it 
was  intended. 

[04] 


I  am  still  carrying  that  fish.  How  seldom  we 
are  able  to  restore  the  bare  exaction,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  fourfold  !  My  tree  was  harder 
to  climb  than  Zacchseus's.  Mine  was  an  ancient 
white  oak,  with  the  nest  set  directly  upon  its 
dead  top.  I  had  stood  within  this  very  nest 
twelve  years  before ;  but  even  with  the  help  of 
my  conscience  I  could  not  get  into  it  now.  Not 
that  I  had  grown  older  or  larger.  Twelve  years 
do  not  count  unless  they  carry  one  past  forty. 
It  was  the  nest  that  had  grown.  Gazing  up  at 
it,  I  readily  believed  the  old  farmer  in  the  Zane's 
house  who  said  it  would  take  a  pair  of  mules  to 
haul  it.  He  thought  it  larger  than  one  that 
blew  down  in  the  marsh  the  previous  winter, 
which  made  three  cart-loads. 

One  thinks  of  Stirling  and  of  the  castles  frown- 
ing down  upon  the  Rhine  as  he  comes  out  of  the 
wide,  flat  marsh  beneath  this  great  nest,  crown- 
ing this  loftiest  eminence  in  all  the  region.  But 
no  chateau  of  the  Alps,  no  beetling  crag-lodged 
castle  of  the  Khine,  can  match  the  fish-hawk's 
nest  for  sheer  boldness  and  daring.  Only  the 
eagles'  nests  upon  the  fierce  dizzy  pinnacles  in 
the  Yosemite  surpass  the  home  of  the  fish-hawk 
5  [65] 


in  unawed  boldness.  The  aery  of  the  Yosemite 
eagle  is  the  most  sublimely  defiant  of  things 
built  by  bird,  or  beast,  or  man. 

A  fish-hawk  will  make  its  nest  upon  the  ground, 
or  a  hummock,  a  stump,  a  buoy,  a  chimney— 
upon  anything  near  the  water  that  offers  an 
adequate  platform ;  but  its  choice  is  the  dead 
top  of  some  lofty  tree  where  the  pathway  for  its 
wide  wings  is  open  and  the  vision  range  is  free 
for  miles  around. 

How  dare  the  bird  rear  such  a  pile  upon  so 
slight  and  towering  a  support !  How  dare  she 
defy  the  winds,  which,  loosened  far  out  on  the 
bay,  come  driving  across  the  cowering,  unresist- 
ing marsh  !  She  is  too  bold  sometimes.  I  have 
known  more  than  one  nest  to  fall  in  a  wild  May 
gale.  Many  a  nest,  built  higher  and  wider  year 
after  year,  while  all  the  time  its  dead  support 
has  been  rotting  and  weakening,  gets  heavy 
with  the  wet  of  winter,  and  some  night,  under 
the  weight  of  an  ice-storm,  comes  crashing  to 
the  earth. 

Yet  twelve  years  had  gone  since  I  scaled  the 
walls  and  stood  within  this  nest ;  and  with  pa- 
tience and  hardihood  enough  I  could  have  done 
[66] 


it  again  this  time,  no  doubt.  I  remember  one 
nest  along  Maurice  River,  perched  so  high  above 
the  gums  of  the  swamp  as  to  be  visible  from  my 
home  across  a  mile  of  trees,  that  has  stood  a 
landmark  for  the  oystermen  this  score  of  years. 

The  sensations  of  my  climb  into  this  fish-hawk's 
nest  of  the  marsh  are  vivid  even  now.  Going 
up  was  comparatively  easy.  When  I  reached 
the  forks  holding  the  nest,  I  found  I  was  under 
a  bulk  of  sticks  and  corn-stalks  which  was  about 
the  size  of  an  ordinary  haycock  or  an  unusually 
large  wash-tub.  By  pulling  out,  pushing  aside, 
and  breaking  off  the  sticks,  I  worked  a  precari- 
ous way  through  the  four  feet  or  more  of  debris 
and  scrambled  over  the  edge.  There  were  two 
eggs.  Taking  them  in  my  hands,  so  as  not  to 
crush  them,  I  rose  carefully  to  my  feet. 

Upright  in  a  hawk's  nest !  Sixty  feet  in  the 
air,  on  the  top  of  a  gaunt  old  white  oak,  high 
above  the  highest  leaf,  with  the  screaming 
hawks  about  my  head,  with  marsh  and  river 
and  bay  lying  far  around  !  It  was  a  moment  of 
exultation ;  and  the  thrill  of  it  has  been  trans- 
mitted through  the  years.  My  body  has  been 
drawn  to  higher  places  since ;  but  my  soul  has 
[67] 


never  quite  touched  that  altitude  again,  for  I 
was  a  boy  then. 

Nor  has  it  ever  shot  swifter,  deeper  into  the 
abyss  of  mortal  terror  than  followed  with  my 
turning  to  descend.  I  looked  down  into  empty 
air.  Feet  foremost  I  backed  over  the  rim,  clutch- 
ing the  loose  sticks  and  feeling  for  a  foothold. 
They  snapped  with  the  least  pressure ;  slipped 
and  fell  if  I  pushed  them,  or  stuck  out  into  my 
clothing.  Suddenly  the  sticks  in  my  hands 
pulled  out,  my  feet  broke  through  under  me, 
and  for  an  instant  I  hung  at  the  side  of  the  nest 
in  the  air,  impaled  on  a  stub  that  caught  my 
blouse  as  I  slipped. 

There  is  a  special  Providence  busy  with  the 
boy. 

This  huge  nest  of  the  fish-hawks  was  more  than 
a  nest ;  it  was  a  castle  in  very  truth,  in  the  shel- 
tering crevices  of  whose  uneven  walls  a  small 
community  of  purple  grackles  lived.  Wedged 
in  among  the  protruding  sticks  was  nest  above 
nest,  plastering  the  great  pile  over,  making  it 
almost  grassy  with  their  loose  flying  ends.  I 
remember  that  I  counted  more  than  twenty  of 
these  crow-blacks'  nests  the  time  I  climbed  the 
[68] 


tree,  and  that  I  destroyed  several  in  breaking 
my  way  up  the  face  of  the  structure. 

Do  the  blackbirds  nest  here  for  the  protec- 
tion afforded  by  the  presence  of  the  hawks  ?  Do 
they  come  for  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  these 
great  people's  table?  Or  is  it  the  excellent  op- 
portunity for  social  life  offered  by  this  conve- 
nient apartment-house  that  attracts  ? 

The  purple  grackles  are  a  garrulous,  gossipy 
set,  as  every  one  knows.  They  are  able-bodied, 
not  particularly  fond  of  fish,  and  inclined  to 
seek  the  neighborhood  of  man,  rather  than  to 
come  out  here  away  from  him.  They  make  very 
good  American  rooks.  So  I  am  led  to  think  it 
is  their  love  of  "neighboring"  that  brings  them 
about  the  hawk's  nest.  If  this  surmise  is  correct, 
then  the  presence  of  two  families  of  English 
sparrows  among  them  might  account  for  there 
being  only  eight  nests  now,  where  a  decade  ago 
there  were  twenty. 

I  was  amused— no  longer  amazed— at  finding 
the  sparrows  here.  The  seed  of  these  birds  shall 
possess  the  earth.  Is  there  even  now  a  spot  into 
which  the  bumptious,  mannerless,  ubiquitous 
little  pleb  has  not  pushed  himself1?  If  you  look 
[69] 


for  him  in  the  rain-pipes  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 
mansions,  he  is  there  ;  if  you  search  for  him  in 
the  middle  of  the  wide,  silent  salt-marsh,  he  is 
there ;  if  you  take— but  it  is  vain  to  take  the 
wings  of  the  morning,  or  of  anything  else,  in  the 
hope  of  flying  to  a  spot  where  the  stumpy  little 
wings  of  the  English  sparrow  have  not  already 
carried  him. 

There  is  something  really  admirable  in  the 
unqualified  sense  of  ownership,  the  absolute  want 
of  diffidence,  the  abiding  self-possession  and  cool- 
ness of  these  birds.  One  cannot  measure  it  in 
the  city  streets,  where  everybody  jostles  and 
stares.  It  can  be  appreciated  only  in  the  marsh  : 
here  in  the  silence,  the  secrecy,  the  withdraw- 
ing, where  even  the  formidable-looking  fiddler- 
crabs  shy  and  sidle  into  their  holes  as  you  pass  ; 
here,  where  the  sparrows  may  perch  upon  the 
rim  of  a  great  hawk's  nest,  twist  their  necks, 
ogle  you  out  of  countenance,  and  demand  what 
business  brought  you  to  the  marsh. 

I  hunted  round  for  a  stone  when  one  of  them 

buttonholed  me.     He  was  n't  insolent,  but  he 

was   impertinent.      The    two   hawks    and   the 

blackbirds  flew  off  as  I  came  up  ;  but  the  sparrows 

[70] 


stayed.  They  were  the  only  ones  in  possession 
as  I  moved  away ;  and  they  will  be  the  only 
ones  in  possession  when  I  return.  If  that  is 
next  summer,  then  I  shall  find  a  colony  of  twenty 
sparrow  families  around  the  hawk's  nest.  The 
purple  grackles  will  be  gone.  And  the  fish- 
hawks?  Only  the  question  of  another  year  or 
so  when  they,  too,  shall  be  dispossessed  and 
gone.  But  where  will  they  go  to  escape  the 
sparrows  ? 

Ill 

FROM  a  mile  away  I  turned  to  look  back  at 
the  "cripple  "  where  towered  the  tall  white  oak 
of  the  hawks.  Both  birds  were  wheeling  about 
the  castle  nest,  their  noble  flight  full  of  the  free- 
dom of  the  marsh,  their  piercing  cries  voicing 
its  wildness.  And  how  free,  how  wild,  how  un- 
touched by  human  hands  the  wide  plain  seemed  ! 
Sea-like  it  lay  about  me,  circled  southward  from 
east  to  west  with  the  rim  of  the  sky. 

I  moved  on  toward  the  bay.     The  sun  had 

dropped  to  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  its  level-lined 

shafts  splintering  into  golden  fire  against  the 

curtained  windows  of  the  lighthouse.     It  would 

[71] 


soon  be  sunset.  For  some  time  there  had  been 
a  quiet  gurgling  and  lisping  down  in  the  grass, 
but  it  had  meant  nothing,  until,  of  a  sudden,  I 
heard  the  rush  of  a  wave  along  the  beach :  the 
tide  was  coming  in.  And  with  it  came  a  breeze, 
a  moving,  briny,  bay-cooled  breeze  that  stirred 
the  grass  with  a  whisper  of  night. 

Once  more  I  had  worked  round  to  the  road. 
It  ran  on  ahead  of  me,  up  a  bushy  dune,  and 
forked,  one  branch  leading  off  to  the  lighthouse, 
the  other  straight  out  to  the  beach,  out  against 
the  white  of  the  breaking  waves. 

The  evening  purple  was  deepening  on  the 
bay  when  I  mounted  the  dune.  Bands  of  pink 
and  crimson  clouded  the  west,  a  thin  cold  wash 
of  blue  veiled  the  east ;  and  overhead,  bayward, 
landward,  everywhere,  the  misting  and  the 
shadowing  of  the  twilight. 

Between  me  and  the  white  wave-bars  at  the 
end  of  the  road  gleamed  a  patch  of  silvery 
water— the  returning  tide.  As  I  watched,  a  sil- 
very streamlet  broke  away  and  came  running 
down  the  wheel  track.  Another  streamlet,  lag- 
ging a  little,  ran  shining  down  the  other  track, 
stopped,  rose,  and  creeping  slowly  to  the  middle 
[72] 


of  the  road,  spread  into  a  second  gleaming  patch. 
They  grew,  met— and  the  road  for  a  hundred 
feet  was  covered  with  the  bay. 

As  the  crimson  paled  into  smoky  pearl,  the 
blue  changed  green  and  gold,  and  big  at  the 
edge  of  the  marsh  showed  the  rim  of  the  moon. 

Weird  hour !  Sunset,  moonrise,  flood-tide, 
and  twilight  together  weaving  the  spell  of  the 
night  over  the  wide  waking  marsh.  Mysterious, 
sinister  almost,  seemed  the  swift,  stealthy  creep- 
ing of  the  tide.  It  was  surrounding  and  crawl- 
ing in  upon  me.  Already  it  stood  ankle-deep  in 
the  road,  and  was  reaching  toward  my  knees,  a 
warm  thing,  quick  and  moving.  It  slipped 
among  the  grasses  and  into  the  holes  of  the  crabs 
with  a  smothered  bubbling ;  it  disturbed  the 
seaside  sparrows  sleeping  down  in  the  sedge  and 
kept  them  springing  up  to  find  new  beds.  How 
high  would  it  rise?  Behind  me  on  the  road  it 
had  crawled  to  the  foot  of  the  dune.  Would  it 
let  me  through  to  the  mainland  if  I  waited  for 
the  flood  t 

It  would  be  high  tide  at  nine  o'clock.  Find- 
ing a  mound  of  sand  on  the  shore  that  the  water 
could  hardly  cover,  I  sat  down  to  watch  the  tide- 
[73] 


miracle ;  for  here,  surely,  I  should  see  the  won- 
der worked,  so  wide  was  the  open,  so  full,  so 
frank  the  moon. 

In  the  yellow  light  I  could  make  out  the  line 
of  sentinel  trees  across  the  marsh,  and  off  on  the 
bay  a  ship,  looming  dim  in  the  distance,  coming 
on  with  wind  and  tide.  There  were  no  sounds 
except  the  long  regular  wash  of  the  waves,  the 
stir  of  the  breeze  in  the  chafing  sedges,  and  the 
creepy  stepping  of  the  water  weaving  every- 
where through  the  hidden  paths  of  the  grass. 
Presently  a  night-hawk  began  to  flit  about  me, 
then  another  and  another,  skimming  just  above 
the  marsh  as  silent  as  the  shadows.  What  was 
that?  Something  moved  across  the  moon.  In 
a  moment,  bat-like  and  huge  against  the  great 
yellow  disk,  appeared  a  marsh-owl.  He  was 
coming  to  look  at  me.  What  was  I  that  dared 
remain  abroad  in  the  marsh  after  the  rising  of 
the  moon?  that  dared  invade  this  eery  realm, 
this  night-spread,  tide-crept,  half-sealand  where 
he  was  king  ?  How  like  a  goblin  he  seemed  !  I 
thought  of  Grendel,  and  listened  for  the  splash 
of  the  fen-monster's  steps  along  the  edge  of  the 
bay.  But  only  the  owl  came.  Down,  down, 


down  he  bobbed,  till  I  could  almost  feel  the 
fanning  of  his  wings.  How  silent !  His  long 
legs  hung  limp,  his  body  dangled  between  those 
soft  wide  wings  within  reach  of  my  face.  Yet 
I  heard  no  sound.  Mysterious  creature  !  I  was 
glad  when  he  ceased  his  ghostly  dance  about  me 
and  made  off. 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  The  waves  had  ceased  to 
wash  against  the  sand,  for  the  beach  was  gone  ; 
the  breeze  had  died  away  ;  the  stir  of  the  water 
in  the  grass  was  still.  Only  a  ripple  broke  now 
and  then  against  my  little  island.  The  bay  and 
the  marsh  were  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height : 
And  it  is  night. 


[75] 


CALICO   AND   THE   KITTENS 


CALICO   AND   THE   KITTENS 

ONE  spring  day  I  found  myself  the  sole  help 
of  two  blind,  naked  infants— as  near  a  real 
predicament  as  a  man  could  well  get.  What 
did  it  matter  that  they  had  long  tails  and  were 
squirrels?  They  were  infants  just  the  same; 
and  any  kind  of  an  infant  on  the  hands  of  any 
mere  man  is  a  real  tragedy. 

As  I  looked  at  the  two  callow  things  in  the 
grass,  a  dismay  and  weak  helplessness  quite 
overcame  me.  The  way  they  squirmed  and 
shivered  and  squeaked  worked  upon  me  down 
even  to  my  knees.  I  felt  sick  and  foolish. 
[79] 


Both  of  their  parents  were  dead.  Their  loose 
leaf-nest  overhead  had  been  riddled  with  shot. 
I  had  climbed  up  and  found  them ;  I  had 
brought  them  down  ;  I  must— feed  them  !  The 
other  way  of  escape  were  heathen. 

But  how  could  I  feed  them  ?  Nipples,  quills, 
spoons — none  of  them  would  fit  these  mites  of 
mouths.  What  a  miserable  mother  I  was  !  How 
poorly  equipped  for  foundlings !  They  were 
dying  for  lack  of  food  ;  and  as  they  pawed  about 
and  whimpered  in  my  hands  I  devoutly  wished 
the  shot  had  put  them  all  out  of  misery  together. 
I  was  tempted  to  turn  heathen  and  despatch 
them. 

Unhappy  but  resolute,  I  started  homeward, 
determined  to  rear  those  squirrels,  if  it  could  be 
done.  On  my  way  I  remembered— and  it  came 
to  me  with  a  shock— that  one  of  my  neighbor's 
cats  had  a  new  batch  of  kittens.  They  were 
only  a  few  days  old.  Might  not  Calico,  their 
mother,  be  induced  to  adopt  the  squirrels  ? 

Nothing  could  be  more  absurd.     The  kittens 

were   three   times   larger   than   the    squirrels. 

Even  had  they  been  the  same  size,  did  I  think 

the  old  three-colored  cat  could  be  fooled  ?  that 

[80] 


she  might  not  know  a  kitten  of  hers  from  some 
other  mother's— squirrel?  I  was  desperate  in- 
deed. Calico  was  a  hunter.  She  had  eaten 
more  gray  squirrels,  perhaps,  than  I  had  ever 
seen.  She  would  think  I  had  been  foraging  for 
her— the  mother  of  seven  green  kittens!— and 
would  take  my  charges  as  titbits.  Still  I  was 
determined  to  try. 

My  neighbor's  kittens  were  enough  and  to 
spare.  One  of  Calico's  last  year's  lot  still  waited 
a  good  home ;  and  here  were  seven  more  to  be 
cared  for.  Might  not  two  of  these  be  spirited 
away,  far  away ;  the  two  squirrels  substituted, 
and  the  old  cat  be  none  the  wiser  ? 

I  went  home  by  way  of  my  neighbor's,  and 
found  Calico  in  the  basement  curled  up  asleep 
with  her  babies.  She  roused  and  purred  ques- 
tioningly  as  we  bent  over  the  basket,  and 
watched  with  concern,  but  with  no  anxiety,  as 
two  of  her  seven  were  lifted  out  and  put  inside 
a  hat  upon  a  table.  She  was  perfectly  used  to 
having  her  kittens  handled.  True,  strange 
things  had  happened  to  them.  But  that  was 
long  ago ;  and  there  had  been  so  very  many 
kittens  that  no  one  mother  could  remember 
[81] 


about  them  all.  'She  trusted  us— with  an  ear 
pricked  and  eyes  watchful.  But  they  were  safe, 
and  in  a  prideful,  self-conscious,  young-mother 
way  she  began  to  wash  the  five. 

Some  one  stood  between  her  and  the  hat  when 
the  kittens  were  lifted  out  and  the  squirrels 
were  put  in  their  place.  Calico  did  not  see. 
For  a  time  she  thought  no  more  about  them ; 
she  was  busy  washing  and  showing  the  others. 
By  and  by  it  began  to  look  as  though  she  had 
forgotten  that  there  were  more  than  five.  She 
could  not  count.  But  most  mothers  can  number 
their  children,  even  if  they  cannot  count,  and 
soon  Calico  began  to  fidget,  looking  up  at  the  hat 
which  the  hungry,  motherless  squirrels  kept 
rocking.  Then  she  leaped  out  upon  the  floor, 
purring,  and  bounded  upon  the  table,  going 
straight  to  the  young  squirrels. 

There  certainly  was  an  expression  of  surprise 
and  mystification  on  her  face  as  she  saw  the 
change  that  had  come  over  those  kittens.  They 
had  shrunk  and  faded  from  two  or  three  bright 
colors  to  a  single  pale  pink.  She  looked  again 
and  sniffed  them.  Their  odor  had  changed,  too. 
She  turned  to  the  watchers  about  the  table,  but 
[82] 


they  said  nothing.  She  hardly  knew  what  to 
think.  She  was  half  inclined  to  leave  them  and 
go  back  to  the  basket,  when  one  of  the  squirrels 
whimpered—  a  genuine,  universal  baby  whimper. 
That  settled  it.  She  was  a  mother,  and  what- 
ever else  these  things  in  the  hat  might  be,  they 
were  babies.  That  was  enough,  especially  as 
she  needed  just  this  much  baby  here  in  the  hat 
to  make  good  what  was  lacking  in  the  basket. 

With  a  soft,  caressing  purr  she  stepped  gently 
into  the  hat,  took  one  of  the  squirrels  by  the 
neck,  brought  it  to  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
laid  it  down  for  a  firmer  hold ;  then  sprang 
lightly  to  the  floor.  Over  to  the  basket  she 
walked  and  dropped  it  tenderly  among  her 
other  babies.  Then,  having  brought  the  remain- 
ing one  and  deposited  that  with  the  same 
mother-care,  she  got  into  the  basket  herself  and 
curled  down  contentedly— her  heart  all  whole. 

And  this  is  how  strange  a  thing  mother-love 
is !  The  performance  was  scarcely  believable. 
Could  she  be  so  love-blind  as  not  to  see  what 
they  were  and  not  eat  them?  But  when  she 
began  to  lick  the  little  interlopers  and  cuddle 
them  down  to  their  dinner  as  if  they  were  her 
[83] 


own  genuine  kittens,  there  could  be  no  more 
doubt  or  fear. 

The  squirrels  do  not  know  to  this  day  that 
Calico  is  not  their  real  mother.  From  the  first 
they  took  her  mother's  milk  and  mother's  love 
as  rightfully  and  thanklessly  as  the  kittens, 
growing,  not  like  the  kittens  at  all,  but  into  the 
most  normal  of  squirrels,  round  and  fat  and 
splendid-tailed. 

Calico  clearly  recognized  some  difference  be- 
tween the  two  kinds  of  kittens,  but  what  differ- 
ence always  puzzled  her.  She  would  clean  up  a 
kitten  and  comb  it  slick,  then  turn  to  one  of  the 
squirrels  and  wash  it,  but  rarely,  if  ever,  com- 
pleting the  work  because  of  some  disconcerting 
un-catlike  antic.  As  the  squirrels  grew  older 
they  also  grew  friskier,  and  soon  took  the  washing 
as  the  signal  for  a  frolic.  As  well  try  to  wash  a 
bubble.  They  were  bundles  of  live  springs, 
twisting  out  of  her  paws,  dancing  over  her  back, 
leaping,  kicking,  tumbling  as  she  had  never  seen 
a  kitten  do  in  all  her  richly  kittened  experience. 

I  don't  know  why,  but  Calico  was  certainly 
fonder  of  these  two  freaks  than  of  her  own 
normal  children.  Long  after  the  latter  were 
[84] 


weaned  she  nursed  and  mothered  the  squirrels. 
I  have  frequently  seen  them  let  into  the  kitchen 
when  the  old  cat  was  there,  and  the  moment 
they  got  through  the  door  they  would  rush 
toward  her,  dropping  chestnuts  or  cookies  by 
the  way.  She  in  turn  would  hurry  to  meet  them 
with  a  little  purr  of  greeting  full  of  joy  and 
affection.  They  were  shamefully  big  for  such 
doings.  The  kittens  had  quit  it  long  ago.  Calico 
herself,  after  a  while,  came  to  feel  the  impro- 
priety of  mothering  these  strapping  young  ones, 
and  in-  a  weak,  indulgent  way  tried  to  stop  it. 
But  the  squirrels  were  persistent  and  would  not 
go  about  their  business  at  all  with  an  ordinary  cuff. 
She  would  put  them  off,  run  away  from  them,  slap 
them,  and  make  believe  to  bite ;  but  not  until 
she  did  bite,  and  sharply  too,  would  they  be  off. 
All  this  seemed  very  strange  and  unnatural ; 
yet.  a  stranger  thing  happened  one  day,  when 
Calico  brought  in  to  her  family  a  full-grown 
gray  squirrel  which  she  had  caught  in  the  woods. 
She  laid  it  down  on  the  floor  and  called  the 
kittens  and  squirrels  to  gather  around.  They 
came,  and  as  the  squirrels  sniffed  at  the  dead  one 
on  the  floor  there  was  hardly  a  mark  of  differ- 

[85] 


ence  iu  their  appearance.  It  might  have  been 
one  of  Calico's  own  nursing  that  lay  there  dead, 
so  far  as  any  one  save  Calico  could  see.  And 
with  her  the  difference,  I  think,  was  more  of 
smell  than  of  sight.  But  she  knew  her  own  ;  and 
though  she  often  found  her  two  out  among  the 
trees  of  the  yard,  she  never  was  mistaken,  nor 
for  an  instant  made  as  if  to  hurt  them. 

Yet  they  could  not  have  been  more  entirely 
squirrel  had  their  own  squirrel  mother  nurtured 
them.  Calico's  milk  and  love  went  all  to  cat  in 
her  own  kittens,  and  all  to  squirrel  in  these  that 
she  adopted.  No  single  hair  of  theirs  turned 
from  its  squirrel -gray  to  any  one  of  Calico's 
three  colors  ;  no  single  squirrel  trait  became  the 
least  bit  catlike. 

Indeed,  as  soon  as  the  squirrels  could  run 
about  they  forsook  the  clumsy-footed  kittens 
under  the  stove  and  scampered  up  back  of  the 
hot-water  tank,  where  they  built  a  nest.  When- 
ever Calico  entered  the  kitchen  purring,  out 
would  pop  their  heads,  and  down  they  would 
come,  understanding  the  mother  language  as 
well  as  the  kittens,  and  usually  beating  the  kit- 
tens to  the  mother's  side. 
[86] 


So  far  from  teaching  them  to  climb  and  build 
nests  behind  water-tanks,  their  foster-mother 
never  got  over  her  astonishment  at  it.  All  they 
needed  from  her,  all  they  needed  and  would 
have  received  from  their  own  squirrel  mother, 
was  nourishment  and  protection  until  their  teeth 
and  legs  grew  strong.  Wits  were  born  with 
them  5  experience  was  sure  to  come  to  them ; 
and  with  wits  and  experience  there  is  nothing 
known  among  squirrels  of  their  kind  that  these 
two  would  not  learn  for  themselves. 

And  there  was  not  much  known  to  squirrels 
that  these  two  did  not  know,  apparently  without 
even  learning.  As  they  grew  in  size  they  in- 
creased exceedingly  in  naughtiness,  and  were 
banished  shortly  from  the  kitchen  to  an  ell  or 
back  woodshed.  They  celebrated  this  distinction 
by  dropping  some  hickory-nuts  into  a  rubber 
boot  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  then  gnawing  a 
hole  through  the  toe  of  the  boot  in  order  to 
extract  the  hidden  nuts.  Was  it  mischief  that 
led  them  to  gnaw  through  rather  than  go  down 
the  top  ?  Or  did  something  get  stuffed  into  the 
top  of  the  boot  after  the  nuts  were  dropped  in  ? 
And  did  the  squirrels  remember  that  the  nuts 
[87] 


were  in  there,  or  did  they  smell  them  through 
the  rubber? 

One  woodshed  is  big  enough  only  for  two 
squirrels.  The  family  moved  everything  out 
but  the  wood,  and  the  squirrels  took  possession 
for  the  winter.  Their  first  nest  had  been  built 
behind  the  hot- water  tank.  They  knew  how  to 
build  without  any  teaching.  But  knowing  how 
is  not  all  there  is  to  know  about  building ; 
knowing  where  is  very  important,  and  this  they 
had  to  learn. 

Immediately  on  coming  to  the  woodshed  the 
squirrels  began  their  winter  nest,  a  big,  bulky, 
newspaper  affair,  which  they  placed  up  in  the 
northwest  corner  of  the  shed  directly  under  the 
shingles.  Here  they  slept  till  late  in  the  fall. 
This  was  the  shaded  side  and  the  most  exposed 
corner  of  the  whole  house ;  but  all  went  well 
until  one  night  when  the  weather  suddenly 
turned  very  cold.  A  strong  wind  blew  from  the 
northwest  hard  upon  the  squirrels'  nest. 

The  next  day  there  was  great  activity  in  the 

woodshed— a   scampering   of  lively  feet,   that 

began  early  in  the  morning  and  continued  far 

toward  noon.    The  squirrels  were  moving.    They 

[88] 


gathered  up  their  newspaper  nest  and  carried  it 
— diagonally — across  the  shed  from  the  shaded 
northwest  to  the  sunny  southeast  corner,  where 
they  rebuilt  and  slept  snug  throughout  the 
winter. 

Calico  did  not  teach  them  this  ;  neither  would 
their  own  squirrel  mother  have  taught  them. 
They  knew  how,  to  begin  with.  They  knew 
where  after  one  night  of  experience,  which  in 
this  case  had  to  be  a  night  of  shivers. 


[89] 


THE   SPAKKOW   KOOST 


THE   SPARKOW   EOOST 

AN  early  December  twilight  was  settling 
J.TX  over  Boston,  a  thick  foggy  murk  that 
soaked  down  full  of  smoke  and  smell  and  chill. 
The  streets  were  oozy  with  a  wet  snow  which  had 
fallen  through  the  afternoon  and  had  been  trod- 
den into  mud  ;  and  draughty  with  an  east  wind, 
that  would  have  passed  unnoticed  across  the 
open  fields,  but  which  drew  up  these  narrow 
flues  and  sent  a  shiver  down  one's  back  in  spite 
[93] 


of  coats.  It  was  half-past  five.  The  stores  were 
closing,  their  clerks  everywhere  eddying  into 
the  noisy  streams  of  wheels  and  hoofs  still  pour- 
ing up  and  down.  The  traffic  tide  had  turned, 
but  had  not  yet  ebbed  away. 

And  this  was  evening  !  the  coming  night !  I 
moved  along  with  the  crowd,  homesick  for  the 
wideness  and  quiet  of  the  country,  for  the  sough- 
ing of  the  pines,  the  distant  bang  of  a  barn  door, 
the  night  cry  of  guineas  from  some  neighboring 
farm,  when,  in  the  hurry  and  din,  I  caught  the 
cry  of  bird  voices,  and  looking  up,  found  that  I 
had  stumbled  upon  a  bird  roost— at  the  very 
heart  of  the  city !  I  was  in  front  of  King's 
Chapel  Burial  Ground,  whose  half-dozen  leafless 
trees  were  alive  with  noisy  sparrows. 

The  crowd  swept  on.  I  halted  behind  a  waste- 
barrel  by  the  iron  fence  and  forgot  the  soughing 
pines  and  clacking  guineas. 

Bird  roosts  of  this  size  are  no  common  find. 
I  remember  a  huge  fireplace  chimney  that  stood 
near  my  home,  into  which  a  cloud  of  swallows 
used  to  swarm  for  a  few  nights  preceding  the 
fall  migration ;  I  lived  some  years  close  to  the 
pines  at  the  head  of  Cubby  Hollow,  where  great 
[94] 


flocks  of  crows  slept  nightly  throughout  the  win- 
ter 5  but  these,  besides  now  and  again  a  tempo- 
rary resting-place,  a  mere  caravansary  along  the 
route  of  the  migrants,  were  all  I  had  happened 
upon.  Here  was  another,  bordering  a  city 
street,  overhanging  the  street,  with  a  blazing 
electric  light  to  get  into  bed  by  ! 

Protected  by  the  barrel  from  the  jostle  on  the 
sidewalk,  I  waited  by  the  ancient  graveyard 
until  the  electric  lights  grew  bright,  until  every 
fussing  sparrow  was  quiet,  until  I  could  see  only 
little  gray  balls  and  blurs  in  the  trees  through 
the  misty  drizzle  that  came  down  with  the  night. 
Then  I  turned  toward  my  own  snug  roost,  five 
flights  up,  next  the  roof,  and  just  a  block  away, 
as  the  sparrows  fly,  from  this  roost  of  theirs.  I 
was  glad  to  have  them  so  near  me. 

The  windows  of  my  roost  look  out  over  roofs 
of  slate,  painted  tin,  and  tarry  pebbles,  into 
a  chimney-fenced  plot  of  sky.  Occasionally, 
during  the  winter,  a  herring-gull  from  the  har- 
bor swims  into  this  bit  of  smoky  blue  ;  frequently 
a  pigeon,  sometimes  a  flock,  sails  past ;  and  in 
the  summer  dusk,  after  the  swallows  quit  it,  a 
city-haunting  night-hawk  climbs  out  of  the  for- 
[95] 


est  of  chimney-pots,  up,  up  above  the  smoke  for 
his  booming  roofward  swoop.  But  winter  and 
summer,  save  along  through  June,  the  sparrows, 
as  evening  falls,  cut  across  the  sky  field  on  their 
way  to  the  roost  in  the  old  burial-ground. 
There  go  two,  there  twoscore  in  a  whirling, 
scudding  flurry,  like  a  swift-blown  bunch  of  au- 
tumn leaves.  For  more  than  an  hour  they  keep 
passing— till  the  dusk  turns  to  darkness,  till  all 
are  tucked  away  in  bed. 

One  would  scarcely  recognize  the  birds  as 
they  sweep  past  in  these  flurries,  their  flight  is 
so  unlike  their  usual  clumsy  scuttle  as  they  get 
out  of  one's  way  along  the  street.  They  are 
lumpish  and  short- winged  on  the  street ;  they 
labor  and  lumber  off  with  a  sidewise  twist  to 
their  bodies  that  reminds  one  of  a  rheumatic  old 
dog  upon  the  trot.  What  suggestion  of  grace 
or  swiftness  about  them  upon  the  ground  ?  But 
watch  them  in  their  evening  flight.  It  is  a 
revelation.  They  rise  above  the  houses  and  shoot 
across  my  sky  like  a  charge  of  canister.  I  can 
almost  hear  them  whizz.  Down  by  the  cemetery 
I  have  seen  them  dash  into  view  high  up  in  the 
slit  of  sky,  dive  for  the  trees,  dart  zigzag  like 
[96] 


a  madly  plunging  kite,  and  hurl  themselves,  as 
soft  as  breaths,  among  the  branches. 

This  is  going  to  bed  with  a  vengeance.  I 
never  saw  any  other  birds  get  to  roost  with  such 
velocity.  It  is  characteristic,  however ;  the 
sparrow  never  does  anything  by  halves.  The 
hurry  is  not  caused  by  any  mite  of  anxiety  or 
fear,  rather  from  pure  excess  of  spirit ;  for  after 
rearing  three  broods  during  the  summer,  he  has 
such  a  superabundance  of  vim  that  a  winter  of 
foraging  and  fighting  is  welcome  exercise.  The 
strenuous  life  is  his  kind  of  life.  When  the 
day's  hunt  is  over  and  he  turns  back  to  his  bed, 
why  not  race  it  out  with  his  neighbors?  And 
so  they  come— chasing,  dodging,  tagging  neck 
and  neck,  all  spurting  to  finish  first  at  the  roost. 

We  may  not  love  him  ;  but  he  has  constitution 
and  snap.  And  these  things  do  count. 

One  April  morning,  the  6th,  I  went  down  to 
the  roost  at  three  o'clock.  The  sparrows  were 
sleeping  soundly.  It  was  yet  night.  Had  the 
dawn  been  reaching  up  above  the  dark  walls 
that  shut  the  east  away  from  the  high  tree-tops, 
the  garish  street  light  would  have  kept  it  dim. 
The  trees  were  silent  and  stirless,  as  quiet  as  the 
7  [97] 


graves  beneath  them — more  quiet,  in  fact;  for 
there  issued  from  a  grated  hole  among  the  tombs 
the  sound  of  an  anvil,  deep  down  and  muffled, 
but  unmistakably  ringing,  as  if  Governor  Win- 
throp  were  forging  chains  in  his  vault.  Then 
came  a  rush,  a  deadened  roar,  and  an  emanation 
of  dank  gaseous  breath,  such  as  the  dead  alone 
breathe. 

It  was  only  the  passing  of  a  tool-car  in  the 
subway  underneath  the  cemetery,  and  the 
hammering  of  a  workman  at  a  forge  in  a  niche 
of  the  tunnel.  But,  rising  out  of  the  tombs,  it 
was  gruesome  and  unearthly  in  the  night- 
quiet. 

The  sparrows  did  not  mind  the  sound.  Maybe 
it  ascended  as  a  pleasant  murmur  to  them  and 
shaped  their  dreams,  as  dream-stuff  drifts  to 
their  sweet- voiced  cousins  in  the  meadows  with 
the  lap  and  lave  of  the  streams.  A  carriage 
rolled  by.  The  clank  of  hoofs  disturbed  none  of 
them.  Some  one  slammed  the  door  of  an  apothe- 
cary-shop across  the  street,  and  hurried  off.  Not 
a  sparrow  stirred. 

I  was  trying  to  see  whether  the  birds  slept 
with  their  heads  beneath  their  wings.  Appa- 
[98] 


rently  they  did,  for  I  could  not  make  out  a  head, 
though  some  of  the  sleepers  hung  over  the  street 
within  ten  feet  of  the  lamp-post.  But  they  were 
all  above  the  light,  with  only  their  breasts  out  of 
the  shadows,  and  to  be  certain  I  must  make  a 
bird  move.  Finding  that  the  noises  were  not 
likely  to  arouse  them,  I  threw  a  stick  against 
one  of  the  laden  limbs.  There  were  heads  then, 
plenty  of  them,  and  every  one,  evidently,  had 
been  turned  back  and  buried  in  the  warm  wing- 
coverts. 

My  stick  hit  very  near  the  toes  of  one  of  the 
sparrows,  and  he  flew.  There  was  a  twitter, 
then  a  stir  all  over  the  tree  ;  but  nothing  further 
happening,  they  tucked  in  their  heads  again  and 
went  back  to  bed. 

I  waited.  At  four  o'clock  they  still  slept. 
The  moon  had  swung  out  from  behind  the  high 
buildings  and  now  hung  just  above  the  slender 
spire  of  Park  Street  Church,  looking  down  into 
the  deep,  narrow  street  gulch.  A  cat  picked  her 
way  among  the  graves,  sprang  noiselessly  to  the 
top  of  a  flat  tomb  beneath  the  sparrows,  and 
watched  with  me.  The  creature  brought  the 
wilderness  with  her.  After  all,  this  was  not  so 
[99] 


far  removed  from  the  woods.  In  the  empty 
street,  beneath  the  silent,  shuttered  walls,  with 
something  still  of  the  mystery  of  the  night  winds 
in  the  bare  trees,  the  scene,  for  an  instant,  was 
touched  with  the  spell  of  the  dark  and  the  un- 
tamed. 

After  a  swift  warming  walk  of  fifteen  minutes 
I  returned  to  the  roost.  There  were  signs  of 
waking  now :  a  flutter  here,  a  twitter  there, 
then  quiet  again,  with  no  general  movement 
until  half-past  four,  when  the  city  lights  were 
shut  off.  Then,  instantly,  from  a  dozen  branches 
sounded  loud,  clear  chirps,  and  every  sparrow 
opened  his  eyes.  The  incandescent  bulbs  about 
the  border  of  the  roost  were  moon  and  stars  to 
them,  lights  in  the  firmament  of  their  heaven 
to  divide  the  night  from  the  day.  When  they 
blazed  forth,  it  was  evening— bedtime ;  when 
they  went  out,  it  was  morning— the  time  to 
wake  up. 

The  softness  of  dusk,  how  unknown  to  these 
city  dwellers  !  and  the  fresh  sweet  beauty  of  the 
dawn! 

Morning  must  have  begun  to  break  along 
near  four  o'clock,  for  the  cold  gray  across  the 
[100] 


sky  was  already  passing  into  pearl.  The  coun- 
try birds  had  been  up  half  an  hour,  I  am  sure. 
However,  the  old  cemetery  was  wide  enough 
awake  now.  There  was  chirping  everywhere. 
It  grew  louder  and  more  general  every  moment, 
till  shortly  the  six  thousand  voices,  and  more, 
were  raised  in  the  cheerful  din— the  matin,  if 
you  please,  for  as  yet  only  a  few  of  the  birds 
were  fighting. 

But  the  fight  quickly  spread.  It  is  the  Eng- 
lish sparrow's  way  of  waking  up ;  his  way  of 
whetting  his  appetite  for  breakfast ;  his  way  of 
digesting  his  dinner ;  his  way  of  settling  his 
supper — his  normal  waking  way. 

To  the  clatter  of  voices  was  added  the  flutter 
of  wings ;  for  the  birds  had  begun  to  shift 
perches,  and  to  exchange  slaps  as  well  as  to  call 
names— the  movement  setting  toward  the  tree- 
tops.  None  of  the  sparrows  had  left  the  roost. 
The  storm  of  chatter  increased  and  the  buzz  of 
wings  quickened  into  a  steady  whir,  the  noise 
holding  its  own  with  that  of  the  ice-wagons 
pounding  past.  The  birds  were  filling  the  top- 
most branches,  a  gathering  of  the  clans,  evi- 
dently, for  the  day's  start.  The  clock  in  Scollay 
[101] 


Square  station  pointed  to  five  minutes  to  five, 
and  just  before  the  hour  struck,  two  birds 
launched  out  and  spun  away. 

The  exodus  had  commenced.  The  rest  of 
Boston  was  not  stirring  yet.  It  was  still  early  ; 
hardly  a  flush  of  warmth  had  washed  the  pearl. 
But  the  sparrows  had  many  matters  to  attend  to 
before  all  the  milkmen  and  bakers  got  abroad : 
they  must  take  their  morning  dust-bath,  for  one 
thing,  in  the  worn  places  between  the  cobble- 
stones, before  the  street-sprinkler  began  its 
sloppy  rounds. 

There  was  a  constant  whirl  out  of  the  tree- 
tops  now.  Occasionally  a  bird  flew  off  alone, 
but  most  of  them  left  in  small  flocks,  just  as  I 
should  see  them  return  in  the  evening.  Doubt- 
less the  members  of  these  flocks  were  the  birds 
belonging  to  certain  neighborhoods,  those  that 
nested  and  fed  about  certain  squares,  large  door- 
yards,  and  leafy  courts.  They  may  indeed  have 
been  families  that  were  hatched  last  summer. 

The  birds  that  left  singly  went  away,  as  a  rule, 
over  the  roofs  toward  the  denser  business  sec- 
tions of  the  city,  while  the  bands,  as  I  had  no- 
ticed them  come  in  at  night,  took  the  opposite 
[102] 


course,  toward  Cambridge  and  Charlestown. 
Not  more  than  one  in  a  hundred  flew  south 
across  the  city. 

Of  course  there  are  sparrows  all  over  Boston. 
There  is  no  street  too  narrow,  too  noisy,  too 
dank  with  the  smell  of  leather  for  them.  They 
seem  as  numerous  where  the  rush  of  drays  is 
thickest  as  in  the  open  breathing-places  where 
the  fountains  play.  They  are  in  every  quarter, 
yet  those  to  the  east  and  south  of  the  old  burial- 
ground  do  not  belong  to  the  roost.  Perhaps 
they  have  graveyards  of  their  own  in  their  sec- 
tions, though  I  have  been  unable  to  find  them. 
So  far  as  I  know,  this  is  the  only  roost  in  or 
about  Boston.  And  this  is  the  stranger  since  so 
few  of  the  total  number  of  the  Boston  sparrows 
sleep  here.  A  careful  estimate  showed  me  that 
there  could  not  have  been  more  than  six  or 
seven  thousand  in  the  roost.  One  would  almost 
say  there  were  as  many  millions  in  Boston. 
And  where  do  these  millions  sleep?  For  the 
most  part,  each  one  alone  behind  his  sign-board 
or  shutter  near  his  local  feeding-grounds. 

Now,  why  should  the  sparrows  of  the  roost 
prefer  King's  Chapel  Burial  Ground  to  the  Old 
[103] 


Granary,  a  stone's  throw  up  the  street?  I  passed 
the  Old  Granary  yard  on  my  way  to  the  roost 
and  found  the  trees  empty.  I  searched  the 
limbs  with  my  glass  ;  there  was  not  a  sparrow  to 
be  seen.  Still,  the  Granary  is  the  less  exposed 
of  the  two.  It  may  not  formerly  have  been  so  ; 
but  at  present  high  sheltering  walls  bend  about 
the  trees  like  a  well.  Years  ago,  perhaps,  when 
the  sparrows  began  to  roost  in  the  trees  at 
King's  Chapel,  the  Old  Granary  elms  were  more 
open  to  the  winds,  and  now  force  of  habit  and 
example  keep  the  birds  returning  to  the  first 
lodge. 

Back  they  come,  no  matter  what  the  weather. 
There  are  a  thousand  cozy  corners  into  which  a 
sparrow  might  creep  on  a  stormy  night,  where 
even  the  winds  that  know  their  way  through 
Boston  streets  could  not  search  him  out.  But 
the  instinct  to  do  as  he  always  has  done  is  as 
strong  in  the  sparrow,  in  spite  of  his  love  for 
pioneering,  as  it  is  in  the  rest  of  us.  He  was 
brought  here  to  roost  as  soon  as  he  could  fly, 
when  the  leaves  were  on  and  the  nights  deli- 
cious. If  the  leaves  go  and  the  nights  change, 
what  of  that!  Here  he  began,  here  he  will  con- 
[104] 


tinue  to  sleep.  Let  it  rain,  blow,  snow ;  let  the 
sleet,  like  a  slimy  serpent,  creep  up  the  trunk 
and  wrap  around  the  twigs :  still  he  will  hold 
on.  Many  a  night  I  have  seen  them  sleeping 
through  a  driving  winter  rain,  their  breasts  to 
the  storm,  their  tails  hanging  straight  down, 
shedding  every  drop.  If  a  gale  is  blowing,  and 
it  is  cold,  they  get  to  the  leeward  of  the  tree,  as 
close  to  the  trunk  as  possible,  and  anchor  fast, 
every  bill  pointing  into  the  wind,  every  feather 
reefed,  every  tail  lying  out  on  the  flat  of  the 
storm. 

As  I  watched  the  bands  starting  from  the  tree- 
tops  of  the  roost  I  wondered  if  they  really 
crossed  the  river  into  Cambridge  and  Charles- 
town.  A  few  mornings  later  I  was  again  up 
early,  hastening  down  to  the  West  Boston  Bridge 
to  see  if  I  could  discover  the  birds  going  over.  As 
I  started  out  I  saw  bunches  moving  toward  the 
river  with  a  free  and  easy  flight,  but  whether  I 
reached  the  bridge  too  late,  or  whether  they 
scattered  and  went  over  singly,  I  do  not  know. 
Only  now  and  then  did  a  bird  cross,  and  he 
seemed  to  come  from  along  the  shore  rather 
than  from  above  the  house-tops. 
[105] 


I  concluded  that  the  birds  of  the  roost  were 
strictly  Bostonians.  One  evening,  however,  about 
a  week  later,  as  I  was  upon  this  bridge  coming 
from  Cambridge,  a  flock  of  sparrows  whizzed 
past  me,  dipped  over  the  rail  to  the  water, 
swung  up  above  the  wall  of  houses,  and  disap- 
peared toward  the  roost.  They  were  on  their 
way  from  Cambridge,  from  the  classic  elms  of 
Harvard  campus,  who  knows,  to  the  elms  of  the 
ancient  burial-ground. 

It  was  five  that  April  morning  when  the  first 
sparrow  left  the  roost.  By  half-past  five  the 
trees  were  empty,  except  for  the  few  birds  whose 
hunting-ground  included  the  cemetery.  By  this 
time  the  city,  too,  had  yawned,  and  rubbed  its 
eyes,  and  tumbled  out  of  bed. 


[106] 


"MUX" 


.£'• 


"  MUX  » 

NO,  "Mux"  is  not  an  elegant  name— not  to 
be  compared  with  Eonald  or  Claudia,  for 
instance ;  and  I  want  to  say  it  is  not  the  name 
of  one  of  my  children,  though  its  owner  was 
once  a  member  of  my  household.  Mux  was  a 
tame  half-grown  coon,  with  just  the  ordinary 
number  of  rings  around  his  tail,  but  with  the 
most  extraordinary  amount  of  mischief  in  his 
little  coon  soul.  Perhaps  he  had  no  real  soul, 
and  I  should  have  located  his  mischief  some- 
where else.  If  so,  then  I  should  say  in  his  feet. 
I  never  saw  any  other  feet  so  expressive.  The 
[109] 


essence  of  the  little  beast  seemed  concentrated 
in  his  fore  paws.  If  they  made  trouble,  whose 
fault  was  it?  They  were  designed  for  trouble. 
You  could  see  this  purpose  in  them  as  plainly 
as  you  could  see  the  purpose  in  a  swallow's 
wings.  Whenever  Mux  ran  across  the  yard 
these  paws  picked  up  trouble  out  of  the  turf, 
just  as  if  the  grass  were  trouble-filings,  and  Mux 
a  kind  of  four-footed  magnet.  He  never  went 
far  before  they  clogged  and  stopped  him. 

One  day,  the  first  day  that  Mux  was  given  the 
liberty  of  the  yard,  who  should  he  run  foul  of 
but  Tom  !  The  struggle  had  to  come  sometime, 
and  it  was  just  as  well  that  it  came  thus  early, 
while  Tom  and  Mux  were  on  an  equal  footing 
as  to  size,  for  Mux  was  young  and  growing. 

Tom  was  boss  of  the  yard.  Every  farmer's 
dog  that  went  to  town  by  our  gate  knew  enough 
to  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  Tom  had  grown  a 
little  lordly  and  opinionated.  He  was  sleeping 
in  the  sun  on  the  shed-step  as  Mux  ambled  up. 
At  sight  of  the  coon  Tom  rose  in  more  than  his 
usual  feline  mightiness  and  cast  such  a  look  of 
surprise,  scorn,  and  annihilating  intent  upon  the 
interloper  as  ought  to  have  struck  terror  to  the 
[110] 


stoutest  heart.  But  Mux  hardly  seemed  to  un- 
derstand. On  he  came,  right  into  certain  de- 
struction, a  very  lamb  of  innocence  and  meek- 
ness. O  you  unsuspecting  little  stranger ! 
Don't  you  see  this  awful  monster  swelling,  swell- 
ing into  this  hideous  hump?  No,  Mux  did  not 
see  him.  Tom  was  raging.  His  teeth  gleamed  ; 
his  eyes  blazed  green ;  his  claws  worked  in  a 
nervous  way  that  made  my  flesh  creep.  He 
was  vanishing,  not,  like  the  Cheshire  Cat,  into  a 
long  lovely  grin,  but  vanishing  from  a  four- 
legged  cat  into  a  yellow,  one-legged  hump.  All 
that  was  left  of  him  now  was  hump. 

Mux  was  only  a  few  feet  away.  Tom  began 
to  advance,  not  directly,  but  just  a  trifle  on  the 
bias,  across  Mux's  bows  so  to  speak,  as  if  to  give 
him  a  broadside.  They  were  within  range. 
Tom  was  heaving  to.  I  trembled  for  the  young 
coon.  Suddenly  there  was  a  hiss,  a  flash  of  yel- 
low in  the  air,  and— a  very  big  surprise  await- 
ing Thomas !  That  little  coon  was  no  stupid 
after  all.  He  had  not  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  nor 
doubled  up  his  fists,  nor  put  a  chip  upon  his 
shoulder ;  but  he  knew  what  was  expected  of 
him,  just  the  same.  He  snapped  instantly  upon 
[111] 


his  back,  received  the  cat  with  all  four  of  his 
feet,  and  gave  Mr.  Tom  such  a  combing  down 
that  his  golden  fur  went  flying  off  like  thistle- 
down in  autumn. 

It  was  all  over  in  less  than  half  a  minute.  I 
think  Tom  must  have  made  a  new  record  for 
himself  in  the  running  high  jump  when  he  broke 
away  from  his  ring- tailed  antagonist.  He  struck 
out  across  the  yard  and  landed  midway  up  the 
clothes-post  with  a  single  bound.  And  Mux? 
He  ambled  on  around  the  yard,  as  calm  and  un- 
concerned as  if  he  had  only  stopped  to  scratch 
himself. 

Much  of  this  unconcern,  however,  was  a  quiet 
kind  of  swagger.  When  he  thought  no  one 
fiercer  than  a  chicken  or  the  humbled  Mr.  Tom 
was  looking,  he  would  shuffle  across  the  yard 
with  his  coat  collar  turned  up,  his  hat  over  his 
eye,  his  elbows  angled — just  as  if  he  had  been 
born  and  bred  on  the  Bowery  instead  of  in  the 
Bear  Swamp.  He  was  king  of  the  yard,  but  I 
could  see  that  he  wore  his  crown  uneasily.  He 
kept  a  bold  front,  accepted  every  challenge,  and 
even  went  out  of  his  way  to  pick  a  quarrel ;  yet 
he  quaked  at  heart  continually.  He  feared  and 
[112] 


hated  the  noises  of  the  yard,  particularly  the 
crowing  of  our  big  buff  cochin  rooster  and  the 
screaming  of  the  guineas.  This  was  one  of  the 
swamp-fears  that  he  had  brought  with  him  and 
could  not  outlive.  It  haunted  him.  If  he  had  a 
conscience,  its  only  warnings  were  of  coming 
noises  great  and  terrible. 

But  Mux  had  no  conscience,  unless  it  was  one 
that  troubled  him  only  when  he  was  out  of  mis- 
chief. His  face  was  never  so  long  and  so  solemn 
as  when  I  had  caught  him  in  some  questionable 
act  or  spoiled  some  wayward  plan. 

Mux,  however,  was  possessed  by  a  much  stub- 
borner  spirit  than  this  interesting  mischief-devil. 
Upon  one  point  he  was  positively  demented— 
the  only  four-footed  maniac  I  ever  knew.  He 
had  gone  crazy  on  the  subject  of  dirt,  mad  to 
wash  things,  especially  his  victuals. 

He  was  not  particular  about  what  he  ate  ;  al- 
most anything  that  could  be  swallowed  would 
do,  provided  that  it  could  be  washed,  and 
washed  by  himself,  after  his  own  approved 
fashion. 

If  I  gave  him  half  of  my  apple,  he  would 
squat  down  by  his  wash-tub  and  begin  to  hunt 

8  [113] 


for  dirt.  He  would  look  the  apple  over  and 
over,  pick  around  the  blossom  end,  inspect  care- 
fully, then  pull  out  the  stem,  if  there  happened 
to  be  a  stem,  dig  out  the  seeds  and  peek  into 
the  core,  then  douse  it  into  the  water  and  begin 
to  wash.  He  would  rub  with  might  and  main 
for  a  second  or  two,  then  rinse  it,  take  a  bite, 
and  douse  it  back  again  for  more  scrubbing, 
until  it  was  scrubbed  and  chewed  away. 

Even  when  the  water  was  thick  with  mud, 
this  crazy  coon  persisted  in  washing  his  clean 
cake  and  cabbage  therein.  Indeed,  the  muddier 
the  water,  the  more  vigorously  would  he  wash. 
The  habit  was  a  part  of  him,  as  real  a  thing  in 
his  constitution  as  the  black  ring  in  his  fur.  It 
was  a  very  dirty  habit,  here  in  captivity,  even 
if  it  went  by  the  name  of  washing.  Of  course 
Mux  could  not  be  blamed  for  his  soiled  wash- 
water.  That  was  my  fault ;  only  I  could  n't  be 
changing  it  every  time  he  soaked  up  a  fistful  of 
earth  in  his  endeavor  to  wash  something  to  eat 
out  of  it.  No ;  he  was  not  at  fault,  altogether, 
for  the  mud  in  his  tub.  Out  in  the  Bear  Swamp, 
the  streams  that  wandered  about  under  the 
great  high-spreading  gums,  and  lost  their  way 
[114] 


in  the  shadows,  were  crystal-clear  and  pure  ;  and 
out  there  it  was  intended  that  he  should  dwell, 
and  in  those  sweet  streams  that  he  should  wash. 
But  what  a  modicum  of  wit,  of  originality  the 
little  beast  had,  that,  because  he  was  born  a 
washer,  wash  he  must,  though  he  washed  in  mud, 
nay,  though  he  washed  upon  the  upturned  bot- 
tom of  his  empty  tub !— for  this  is  what  Mux 
did  sometimes. 

I  never  blamed  Aunt  Milly  for  insisting  upon 
this  rather  ill-sounding  name  of  "Mux"  for  the 
little  coon.  She  was  standing  by  his  cage, 
shortly  after  his  arrival,  watching  him  eat  cab- 
bage. He  washed  every  clean  white  piece  of  it  in 
his  oozy  tub  before  tasting  it,  coating  the  bits  over 
with  mud  as  you  do  the  lumps  of  fondant  with 
chocolate  in  making  "  chocolate  creams."  Aunt 
Milly  looked  at  him  for  some  time  with  scornful 
face  and  finally  exclaimed  : 

"  Umph  !  Dat  animile  am  a  dumb  beast  shu' ! 
Eubbin'  dirt  right  inter  clean  cabbage !  Sich 
muxin' !  mux,  mux,  mux !  Dat  a  coon  ?  Dat 
ain't  no  coon.  Dat  's  a  mux  ! "  And  she  scuffed 
off  to  the  house,  mumbling,  "  De  muxinest  thing 
I  done  evah  seen."  Hence  his  name. 
[115] 


If  there  is  one  sweetmeat  sweeter  than  all 
others  to  a  coon,  it  is  a  frog.  It  was  not  mere 
chance  that  Mux  was  born  in  the  edge  of  the 
Bear  Swamp,  close  to  the  wide  marshes  that  ran 
out  to  the  river.  This  was  the  great  country  of 
the  frogs— the  milk-and-honey  country  to  the 
ring-tailed  family  in  the  hollow  gum.  But  Mux 
had  never  tasted  frog.  He  had  not  been  weaned 
when  I  kidnapped  him.  One  day,  wishing  to 
see  if  he  knew  what  a  frog  was,  I  carelessly 
offered  him  a  big  spotted  fellow  that  I  had 
caught  in  the  meadow. 

Did  he  know  a  frog?  He  fairly  snatched  the 
poor  thing  from  me,  killed  it,  and  started  around 
the  cage  with  it  in  his  mouth,  dancing  like  a 
cannibal.  His  long,  serious  face  was  more 
thoughtful  and  solemn,  however,  than  usual.  I 
was  puzzled.  I  had  heard  of  dancing  at  fune- 
rals. Either  this  was  such  a  dance,  or  else  some 
wild  orgy  to  propitiate  the  spirits  that  preside 
over  the  destiny  of  coons. 

Throughout  this  gruesome  rite  Mux  held  the 
frog  in  his  mouth,  and  I  watched,  expecting, 
hoping  every  moment  that  he  would  swallow  it. 
Suddenly  he  stopped,  sat  down  by  his  tub, 

[116] 


pulled  some  dead  grass  out  of  it,  plunged  the 
frog  in,  and  began  to  scrub  it— began  to  scrub 
the  frog  in  the  oozy  contents  of  that  tub,  when 
the  poor  amphibian  had  been  soaking  in  spring- 
water  ever  since  it  was  a  tadpole  ! 

No  matter.  The  frog  must  be  washed.  And 
washed  it  was.  It  was  scoured  first  with  all  his 
might,  then  placed  in  the  bottom  of  the  tub, 
under  water,  held  down  by  one  fore  paw,  until 
the  maniac  could  get  in  with  his  hind  feet  upon 
it,  and  then  danced  upon  ;  from  here  it  was  laid 
upon  the  floor  of  the  cage  and  kneaded  until  as 
limp  as  a  lump  of  dough  ;  then  lifted  daintily,  it 
was  shaken  round  and  round  in  the  water,  rinsed 
and  wrung,  and  minutely  inspected,  and— swal- 
lowed. 

I  felt  justified  in  keeping  this  animal  caged. 
He  was  not  fit  to  run  loose  even  in  the  Bear 
Swamp.  Perhaps  I  have  done  him  wrong  in 
this  story  of  the  frog.  Frogs  may  need  washing, 
after  all,  despite  the  fact  that  they  are  never  out 
of  the  bath-tub  long  enough  to  dry  off  once  in 
their  whole  lives.  Mux  knew  more  about  frogs 
than  I,  doubtless.  But  Mux  insisted  upon  wash- 
ing oysters. 

[117] 


Now  there  are  few  people  clothed  in  sane 
minds  who  do  not  like  raw  oysters.  Mark  this, 
however  :  when  you  see  a  person  wash  raw  oys- 
ters, keep  out  of  his  way  ;  he  has  lost  either  his 
wits  or  his  morals.  The  only  two  creatures  I 
ever  knew  to  wash  raw  oysters  were  Mux  and 
an  oyster-dealer  in  Cambridge  Street,  Boston.  I 
saw  this  dealer  take  up  a  two-gallon  can  that  had 
just  arrived  at  his  store,  and  dump  the  dark 
salty  shell -fish  into  a  great  colander,  stick  the 
end  of  a  piece  of  rubber  hose  in  among  them, 
turn  the  water  on,  and  stir  and  soak  them.  How 
white  they  got !  How  fat  they  got !  How  their 
ghastly  corpses  swelled ! 

Mux  did  not  wash  his  to  see  them  swell,  but 
simply  that  he  might  take  no  chances  with  dirt 
—  or  poison,  for  I  used  to  think  sometimes  that 
he  thought  I  was  trying  to  poison  him.  He  was 
desperately  fond  of  oysters.  But  who  could  cast 
his  pearls,  or,  to  be  scientifically  and  literally 
correct,  his  mothers  of  pearls,  before  such  a 
swine?  Mux  had  just  one  plateful  of  oysters 
while  I  was  his  keeper.  They  were  nice  plump 
fellows,  and  when  I  saw  the  maniac  soak  one  all 
stringy  and  tasteless  I  poured  his  wash-water 
[118] 


out.  "Was  he  to  be  balked  that  way?  No,  no. 
He  took  oyster  number  two,  flopped  it  into  the 
empty  tub,  scoured  it  around  on  the  muddy 
bottom,  looked  it  over  as  carefully  as  he  had 
done  stringy  number  one,  and  swallowed  sandy, 
muddy  number  two  with  just  as  much  relish. 

This  was  too  much.  I  cuffed  him  and  took 
away  the  tub.  This  I  suppose  was  wrong,  for 
I  understand  you  must  never  oppose  crazy  per- 
sqps.  Well,  Mux  helped  himself  to  oyster  num- 
ber three.  There  was  no  water,  no  tub.  But 
what  were  oysters  for  if  not  to  be  washed? 
And  who  was  he  but  Procyon  lotor—Procyon 
"the  washer"!  Can  the  leopard  change  his 
spots  or  the  racoon  his  habits  ?  Can  he  ?  Shall 
he?  I  could  almost  hear  him  muttering  under 
his  breath,  "To  be,  or  not  to  be :  that  is  the 
question."  Then  he  darted  a  triumphantly  ma- 
licious glance  at  me,  retreated  to  the  back  of  his 
cage,  thrust  his  oyster  out  of  sight  beneath  the 
straw  of  his  bed,  and  washed  it— washed  the  oys- 
ter in  the  straw,  washed  it  into  a  fistful  of  sticks 
and  chaff,  and  gloated  as  he  swallowed  it. 


[119] 


RACOON   CREEK 


EACOON   CREEK 

Into  the  wode  to  her  the  briddes  sing. 


O^ER  the  creek,  and  clearing  it  by  a  little, 
hung  a  snow-white,  stirless  mist,  its  under 
surface  even  and  parallel  with  the  face  of  the 
water,  its  upper  surface  peaked  and  billowed  half- 
way to  the  tops  of  the  shore-skirting  trees. 

As  I  dipped  along,  my  head  was  enveloped  in 
the  cloud  ;  but  bending  over  the  skiff,  I  could  see 
far  up  the  stream  between  a  mist-ceiling  and  a 
water-floor,  as  through  a  long,  low  room.  How 
deep  and  dark  seemed  the  water!  And  the 
[123] 


trees  how  remote,  aerial,  and  floating !  as  if 
growing  in  the  skies,  with  no  roots'  fast  hold  of 
the  earth.  Filling  the  valley,  conforming  to 
every  bend  and  stretch  of  the  creek,  lay  the 
breath  of  the  water,  motionless  and  sheeted,  a 
spirit  stream,  hovering  over  the  sluggish  current 
a  moment,  before  it  should  float  upward  and 
melt  away.  It  was  cold,  too,  as  a  wraith  might 
be,  colder  than  the  water,  for  the  June  sun  had 
not  yet  risen  over  the  swamp. 

At  the  bridge  where  the  road  crossed  was  a 
dam  which  backed  the  creek  out  into  an  acre  or 
more  of  pond.  Not  a  particle  of  mud  discolored 
the  water ;  but  it  was  dark,  and  as  it  came 
tumbling,  foaming  over  the  moss-edged  gates  it 
lighted  up  a  rich  amber  color,  the  color  of  strong 
tea.  In  the  half  chill  of  the  dawn  the  old  bridge 
lay  veiled  in  smoking  spray,  in  a  thin,  rising 
vapor  of  spicy  odors,  clean,  medicinal  odors,  as 
of  the  brewing  of  many  roots,  the  fragrance  of 
shores  of  sedges,  ferns,  and  aromatic  herbs  steeped 
in  the  slow,  soft  tide.  And  faint  across  the 
creek,  the  road,  and  the  fields  lay  the  pondy  smell 
of  spatter-docks. 

I  pushed  out  from  the  sandy  cove  and  lay 
[124] 


with  a  reach  of  the  lusty  docks  between  me  and 
either  shore.  It  was  early  morning.  The  yellow, 
dew-laid  road  down  which  I  came  still  slumbered 
undisturbed ;  the  village  cows  had  not  been 
milked,  and  the  pasture  slope,  rounding  with  a 
feminine  grace  of  curve  and  form,  lay  asleep, 
with  its  sedgy  fingers  trailing  in  the  water ;  even 
the  locomotive  in  the  little  terminal  round- 
house over  the  hill  was  not  awake  and  wheezing. 
But  the  creek  people  were  stirring— except  the 
frogs.  They  were  growing  sleepy.  The  long 
June  night  they  had  improved,  soberly,  philo- 
sophically ;  and  now,  seeing  nothing  worth  while 
in  the  dawn  of  this  wonder  day,  they  had  begun 
to  doze.  But  the  birds  were  alive,  full  of  the 
crisp  June  morning,  of  its  overflow  of  gladness, 
and  were  telling  their  joy  in  chorus  up  and  down 
both  banks  of  the  creek. 

Hearkneth  thise  blisful  briddes  how  they  singe. 

Do  you  mean  out  in  Finsbury  Moor,  Father 
Chaucer?  They  were  sweet  along  the  banks  of 
the  Walbrook,  I  know,  for  among  them  "maken 
melody e  "  were  the  skylark,  ethereal  minstrel ! 
and  the  nightingale.  But,  Father  Chaucer,  you 
[125] 


should  have  heard  the  wood-thrushes,  the  orchard- 
orioles— this  whole  morning  chorus  singing  along 
the  creek  !  No  one  may  know  how  blissful,  how 
wide,  how  tKrilling  the  singing  of  birds  can  be 
unless  he  has  listened  when  the  summer  mists 
are  rising  over  Racoon  Creek. 

There  is  no  song-hour  after  sunrise  to  compare 
with  this  for  spirit  and  volume  of  sound.  The 
difference  between  the  singing  in  the  dusk  and 
in  the  dawn  is  the  difference  between  the  slow, 
sweet  melody  of  a  dirge  and  the  triumphant, 
full-voiced  peal  of  a  wedding  march.  Even  one 
who  has  always  lived  in  the  country  can  scarcely 
believe  his  ears  the  first  time  he  is  afield  in 
June  at  the  birds'  awaking-hour. 

Robins  led  the  singing  along  the  creek.  They 
always  do.  In  New  Jersey,  Massachusetts,  Mich- 
igan,—everywhere  it  is  the  same, —  they  out- 
number all  rivals  three  to  one.  It  is  necessary 
to  listen  closely  in  order  to  distinguish  the  other 
voices.  This  particular  morning,  however,  the 
wood-thrushes  were  all  arranged  up  the  copsy 
hillside  at  my  back,  and  so  reinforced  each  other 
that  their  part  was  not  overborne  by  robin  song. 
One  of  the  thrushes  was  perched  upon  a  willow 
[126] 


stub  along  the  edge  of  the  water,  so  near  that  I 
could  see  every  flirt  of  his  wings,  could  almost 
count  the  big  spots  in  his  sides.  Softly,  calmly, 
with  the  purest  joy  he  sang,  pausing  at  the  end 
of  every  few  bars  to  preen  and  call.  His  song 
was  the  soul  of  serenity,  of  all  that  is  spiritual. 
Accompanied  by  the  lower,  more  continuous 
notes  from  among  the  trees,  it  rose,  a  clear,  pure, 
wonderful  soprano,  lifting  the  whole  wide  chorus 
nearer  heaven. 

Farther  along  the  creek,  on  the  border  of 
the  swamp,  the  red-shouldered  blackbirds  were 
massed ;  chiming  in  everywhere  sang  the  cat- 
birds, white-eyed  vireos,  yellow  warblers,  or- 
chard-orioles, and  Maryland  yellowthroats  ;  and 
at  short  intervals,  soaring  for  a  moment  high 
over  the  other  voices,  sounded  the  thrilling, 
throbbing  notes  of  the  cardinal,  broken  suddenly 
and  drowned  by  the  roll  of  the  flicker,  the  wild, 
weird  cry  of  the  great-crested  flycatcher,  or  the 
rapid,  hay-rake  rattle  of  the  belted  kingfisher. 

All  at  once  a  narrow  breeze  cut  a  swath  through 
the  mist  just  across  my  bows,  turned,  spread, 
caught  the  severed  cloud  in  which  I  was  drift- 
ing, and  whirled  it  up  and  away.  The  head  of 
[127] 


the  pond  and  the  upper  creek  were  still  shrouded, 
while  around  me  only  breaths  of  the  white  flecked 
the  water  and  the  spatter-docks.  The  breeze 
had  not  stirred  a  ripple ;  the  current  here  in 
the  broad  of  the  pond  was  imperceptible  ;  and  I 
lay  becalmed  on  the  edge  of  the  open  channel, 
among  the  rank  leaves  and  golden  knobs  of  the 
docks. 

A  crowd  of  chimney-swallows  gathered  over 
the  pond  for  a  morning  bath.  Half  a  hundred 
of  them  were  wheeling,  looping,  and  cutting 
about  me  in  a  perfect  maze  of  orbits,  as  if  so 
many  little  black  shuttles  had  borrowed  wings 
and  gone  crazy  with  freedom.  They  had  come 
to  wash — a  very  proper  thing  to  do,  for  there 
are  few  birds  or  beasts  that  need  it  more.  It 
was  highly  fitting  for  sooty  little  Tom,  seeing  he 
had  to  turn  into  something,  to  become  a  Water 
Baby.  And  if  these  smaller,  winged  sweeps  of 
our  American  chimneys  are  contemplating  a 
metamorphosis,  it  ought  to  be  toward  a  similar 
life  of  soaking. 

They  must  have  been  particularly  sooty  this 
morning.  One  plunge  apiece,  so  far  from  sufficing, 
seemed  hardly  a  beginning.  They  kept  diving 
[128] 


in  over  and  over,  continuing  so  long  that  finally 
I  grew  curious  to  know  how  many  dips  they 
were  taking,  and  so,  in  order  to  count  his  dives, 
I  singled  one  out,  after  most  of  the  flock  had 
done  and  gone  off  to  hawk.  How  many  he  had 
taken  before  I  marked  him,  and  how  many  more 
he  took  after  I  lost  him  among  the  other  birds, 
I  cannot  say ;  but,  standing  up  in  the  skiff,  I 
followed  him  around  and  around  until  he  made 
his  nineteenth  splash,— in  less  than  half  as  many 
minutes,— when  I  got  so  groggy  that  his  twen- 
tieth splash  I  came  near  taking  with  him. 

The  pond  narrows  toward  the  head,  and  just 
before  it  becomes  a  creek  again  the  channel  turns 
abruptly  through  the  docks  in  against  the  right 
shore,  where  the  current  curls  and  dimples 
darkly  under  the  drooping  branches  of  great  red 
maple  ;  then  it  horseshoes  into  the  middle,  com- 
ing down  through  small  bush-islands  and  tangled 
brush  which  deepen  into  an  extensive  swamp. 

June  seemed  a  little  tardy  here,  but  the  elder, 
the  rose,  and  the  panicled  cornel  were  almost 
ready,  the  button-bushes  were  showing  ivory, 
while  the  arrow-wood,  fully  open,  was  glistening 
snowily  everywhere,  its  tiny  flower  crowns  fall- 
9  [129] 


ing  and  floating  in  patches  down-stream,  its  over- 
sweet  breath  hanging  heavy  in  the  morning  mist. 
My  nose  was  in  the  air  all  the  way  for  magnolias 
and  water-lilies,  yet  never  a  whiff  from  either 
shore,  so  particular,  so  unaccountably  notional 
are  some  of  the  high -caste  flowers  with  regard 
to  their  homes. 

The  skiff  edged  slowly  past  the  first  of  the 
islands,  a  mere  hummock  about  a  yard  square, 
and  was  turning  a  sharp  bend  farther  up,  when 
I  thought  I  had  a  glimpse  of  yellowish  wingSj  a 
mere  guess  of  a  bird  shadow,  dropping  among  the 
dense  maple  saplings  and  elder  of  the  islet. 

Had  I  seen  or  simply  imagined  something? 
If  I  had  seen  wings,  then  they  were  not  those  of 
the  thrasher,— the  first  bird  that  came  to  mind,— 
for  they  slipped,  sank,  dropped  through  the 
bushes,  with  just  a  hint  of  dodging  in  their 
movement,  not  exactly  as  a  thrasher  would 
have  moved. 

Drifting  noiselessly  back,  I  searched  the  tangle 
and  must  have  been  looking  directly  at  the  bird 
several  seconds  before  cutting  it  out  from  the 
stalks  and  branches.  It  was  a  least  bittern,  a 
female.  She  was  clinging  to  a  perpendicular 
[130] 


stem  of  elder,  hand  over  hand,  wren  fashion,  her 
long  neck  thrust  straight  into  the  air,  absolutely 
stiff  and  statuesque. 

We  were  less  than  a  skiff's  length  apart,  each 
trying  to  outpose  and  outstare  the  other.  I 
won.  Human  eyes  are  none  the  strongest,  nei- 
ther is  human  patience,  yet  I  have  rarely  seen  a 
creature  that  could  outwait  a  man.  The  only 
steady,  straightforward  eye  in  the  Jungle  was 
Mowgli's — because  it  was  the  only  one  with  a 
steady  mind  behind  it.  As  soon  as  the  bird  let 
herself  look  me  squarely  in  the  eye,  she  knew 
she  was  discovered,  that  her  little  trick  of  turn- 
ing into  a  stub  was  seen  through ;  and  immedi- 
ately, ruffling  her  feathers,  she  lowered  her  head, 
poked  out  her  neck  at  me,  and  swaying  from  side 
to  side  like  a  caged  bear,  tried  to  scare  me,  glar- 
ing and  softly  growling. 

Off  she  flopped  as  I  landed.  The  nest  might 
be  upon  the  ground  or  lodged  among  the  bushes  ; 
but  the  only  ground  space  large  enough  was 
covered  layer  over  layer  with  pearly  clam-shells, 
the  kitchen-midden  of  some  muskrat ;  and  the 
bushes  were  empty.  I  went  to  the  other  islets, 
searched  bog  and  tangle,  and  finally  pulled  away 
[131] 


disappointed,  giving  the  least  bittern  credit  for 
considerable  mother- wit  and  woodcraft.  How 
little  wit  she  really  had  appeared  on  my  return 
down-creek  that  afternoon. 

I  had  now  entered  the  high,  overhanging 
swamp,  where  the  shaggy  trees,  the  looping  vines, 
and  the  rank,  pulpous  undergrowth  grew  thick 
on  both  sides,  reaching  far  back,  a  wet,  heavy 
wilderness  without  a  path,  except  for  the  silent 
feet  of  the  mink  and  the  otter,  and  the  more 
silent  feet  of  the  creek,  here  a  narrow  stream 
winding  darkly  down  through  the  shadows. 

Every  little  while  along  the  rooty,  hummocky 
banks  of  the  creek  I  would  pass  a  muskrat's 
slide.  Here  was  one  at  the  butt  of  a  tulip-pop- 
lar, its  platform  wet  and  freshly  trodden,  its 
"dive"  shooting  sheer  over  a  root  into  the 
stream.  Farther  on  stood  a  large  tussock  whose 
top  was  trampled  flat  and  covered  with  sedge- 
roots.  I  could  not  resist  putting  my  nose  down 
for  a  sniff,  so  good  is  the  smell  of  a  fresh  trail, 
so  close  are  we  to  the  rest  of  the  pack.  In  the 
thick  of  the  swamp  I  stopped  a  moment  to  ex- 
amine the  footprints  of  an  otter  at  a  shallow, 
shelving  place  along  the  bank,  where,  opening 
[132] 


through  the  skunk-cabbage  and  Indian  turnip, 
and  covered  almost  ankle-deep  with  water,  was 
the  creature's  runway. 

I  had  moved  leisurely  along,  yet  not  aim- 
lessly. The  whole  June  day  was  mine  to  waste  ; 
but  it  would  not  be  well  wasted  if  nothing  more 
purposeful  than  wasting  were  in  mind. 

One  does  not  often  drift  to  a  port.  Going 
into  the  woods  to  see  anything  is  a  very  sure 
way  of  seeing  little  or  nothing  ;  and  taking  the 
path  to  anywhere  is  certain  to  lead  one  nowhere 
in  particular.  Many  interested,  nature-loving 
people  fail  to  enjoy  the  out-of-doors  simply  be- 
cause they  have  no  definite  spot  to  reach,  no 
flower,  bird,  or  bug  to  find  when  they  enter  the 
fields  and  woods.  Going  forth  "to  commune 
with  nature"  sounds  very  fine,  but  it  is  much 
more  difficult  work  than  conversing  with  the 
Sphinx.  In  order  to  draw  near  to  nature  I  re- 
quire a  pole  with  a  hook  and  line  on  the  end  of 
it.  While  I  watch  the  float  and  wait,  if  there 
is  any  communion,  it  is  nature  who  holds  it 
with  me  through  the  medium  of  the  pole.  I 
need  to  have  an  errand  to  do  5  some  berries  to 
pick,  a  patch  of  potatoes  to  hoe  (a  very  small 
[133] 


patch)  ;  an  engagement  to  keep,  like  Thoreau, 
with  a  tree,  if  I  hope  to  squander  with  profit 
even  the  laziest  summer  day. 

I  was  heading  up-stream  toward  a  deep 
sandy-sided  pool  that  was  bottomed,  or  rather 
unbottomed,  by  the  shadows  of  overhanging 
beeches.  The  pool  was  alive  with  racoon- 
perch.  A  few  mornings  before  this,  a  boy  from 
a  neighboring  farm  had  come  to  fish  here  and 
had  found  a  fisher  ahead  of  him.  He  was  just 
about  to  cast,  when  back  under  the  limbs  of  the 
beeches  the  water  broke,  and  a  mink  rose  to  the 
surface  with  a  fine  perch  twisting  in  her  jaws. 
Straight  toward  the  boy  she  swam  till  within 
reach  of  his  rod,  when  she  recognized  the  hu- 
man in  him,  turned  a  back-dive  somersault, 
and  vanished. 

Would  she  be  fishing  again  this  morning?  I 
hoped  so.  It  was  her  hour— the  hour  of  the 
rising  mist ;  visitors  rarely  found  their  way  to 
the  pool ;  and  I  knew  the  appearance  of  the  boy 
had  given  her  no  lasting  alarm. 

Floating  around  the  bend,  I  pulled  in  among 
the  shore  bushes  by  a  bit  of  grape-vine,  and  sit- 
ting down  upon  it,  made  my  boat  fast.  I  had 
[134] 


planned  the  trip  with  the  hope  of  seeing  this 
mink  ;  so  I  waited,  quite  hidden,  though  having 
the  pool  in  full  view.  An  hour  passed,  but  no 
mink  appeared.  Another  hour,  and  the  sun 
was  breaking  upon  the  beeches,  and  the  mist 
was  gone  ;  yet  no  mink  came  to  fish.  And  what 
mink  would!  Of  course  you  must  have  it  in 
mind  to  see  a  mink  fish  if  you  wish  to  see  any- 
thing ;  but  the  day  you  really  catch  the  mink 
fishing  will  likely  be  the  day  you  went  out  to 
watch  for  muskrats. 

So  an  hour's  waiting  is  rarely  fruitless.  The 
mink  did  not  come,  but  another  and  quite  as 
expert  a  fisher  did.  All  the  way  up  the  creek  I 
had  been  hearing  the  throaty  ghouw-bhouw  of  a 
great  blue  heron  off  in  the  swamp.  It  was  he 
that  came  for  perch. 

The  flapping  of  the  great  blue  heron  is  a 
sight  good  for  the  soul— an  unheard-of  motion 
these  days,  so  moderate,  unhurried,  and  time- 
contemning  !  The  wing-beats  of  this  one,  as  he 
came  dangling  down  upon  the  meadow  opposite 
me,  have  often  given  me  pause  since.  If  I  could 
have  the  wings  of  the  great  blue  heron  and  flap 
to  my  fishing  now  and  again  ! 
[135] 


On  alighting,  however,  he  was  instantly  all 
nerve  and  tension.  With  the  utmost  caution  he 
came  over  the  high  sedges  on  his  stilt-like  legs 
to  the  brink  of  the  creek  and  posed.  I  doubt  if 
a  frog  or  a  minnow  could  have  told  he  was  a 
thing  of  life.  Stiff  as  a  stub,  every  muscle  taut, 
all  alert,  he  stood,  till — flash !  and  the  long 
pointed  bill  pinned  a  perch,  a  foot  and  a  half 
beneath  the  water.  He  had  quite  made  out  a 
breakfast,  when,  stepping  upon  a  tall  tussock,  he 
stood  face  to  face  with  me — a  human  spectator  ! 
It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  could  keep  mo- 
tionless enough  to  puzzle  him.  Some  muscle 
must  have  twitched,  for  he  understood  and 
leaped  into  the  air  with  a  croak  of  mortal  fright. 


II 


THE  creek  was  roped  off  by  the  sagging  fox 
grape-vines,  and  barred,  from  this  point  on,  by 
the  alders,  so  that  I  gave  up  all  attempt  at  far- 
ther ascent.  I  had  already  given  up  the  mink  ; 
yet  I  waited  under  the  beeches. 

It  was  blazing  overhead,  growing  hotter  and 
closer  all  the  time,  with  hardly  breeze  enough  to 
[136] 


disturb  the  sleep  of  the  leaf  shadows  on  the 
sleepy  stream.  A  rusty,  red-bellied  water-snake, 
in  a  mat  of  briers  near  by,  relaxed  and  straight- 
ened slowly  out,— and  softly,  that  I  might  not  be 
attracted, — stretching  himself  to  the  warmth.  I 
could  have  broken  his  back  with  my  paddle, 
and  perhaps,  by  so  doing,  saved  the  nestlings  of 
a  pair  of  Maryland  yellowthroats  fidgeting  about 
near  him.  He  had  eaten  many  a  young  bird  of 
these  bushes,  I  was  sure— yet  only  circumstan- 
tially sure.  Catching  him  in  the  act  of  robbing 
a  nest  would  have  been  different ;  I  should  have 
felt  justified  then  in  despatching  him.  But  to 
strike  him  asleep  in  the  sun  simply  because  he 
was  a  snake  would  have  robbed  the  spot  of  part 
of  its  life  and  spirit  and  robbed  me  of  serenity 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  enjoy  the  quiet  again  until  I  had  said 
my  prayers  and  slept. 

And  as  between  the  hawks  and  other  wild 
birds,  we  need  not  interfere.  While  the  water- 
snake  was  spreading  himself,  a  small  hawk,  a 
sharp-shinned,  I  think,  came  beating  over  the 
meadow  and  was  met  by  a  vigilance  committee 
of  red-shouldered  blackbirds.  He  did  not  stop 

[137] 


to  eat  any  of  them,  but  darted  up,  and  they  after 
him.  On  up  he  went,  round  and  round  in  a 
rapid,  mounting  spiral,  till  only  one  of  the  dar- 
ing redwings  followed.  I  watched.  Up  they 
went,  higher  than  I  had  ever  seen  a  blackbird 
venture  before.  And  against  such  unequal 
odds !  But  the  hawk  was  scared  and  had  not 
stopped  to  look  back.  He  circled ;  the  black- 
bird cut  across  inside  and  caught  him  on  almost 
every  round.  And  still  higher  in  pure  bravado 
the  redwing  forced  him.  I  began  to  tremble 
for  the  plucky  bird,  when  I  saw  him  turn,  half 
fold  his  shining  wings,  and  shoot  straight  down 
—a  meteor  of  jet  with  fire  flying  from  its  opposite 
sides— down,  down,  while  I  held  my  breath. 
Suddenly  the  wings  flashed,  and  he  was  scaling 
a  steep  incline ;  another  flash,  a  turn,  and  he 
was  upon  a  slower  plane — had  thrown  himself 
against  the  air  and  settled  upon  the  swaying  top 
of  a  brown  cattail. 

A  quiet  had  been  creeping  over  the  swamp 
and  meadow.  The  dry  rasp  of  a  dragon-fly's 
wings  was  loud  in  the  grass.  The  stream  be- 
neath the  beeches  darkened  and  grew  moody  as 
the  light  neared  its  noon  intensity ;  the  beech- 
[138] 


leaves  hung  limp  aud  silent ;  a  catbird  settled 
near  me  with  dropped  tail  and  head  drawn  in 
between  her  shoulders,  as  mute  as  the  leaves ; 
the  Maryland  yellowthroat  broke  into  a  sharp 
gallop  of  song  at  intervals, — he  would  have  to 
clatter  a  little  on  doomsday,  if  that  day  fell  in 
June,— but  the  intervals  were  far  apart.  The 
meadow  shimmered.  No  part  of  the  horizon 
was  in  sight— only  the  sky  overhanging  the 
little  open  of  grass,  and  this  was  cloudless, 
though  far  from  blue. 

Perhaps  there  was  not  a  real  sign  of  uneasiness 
anywhere  except  in  my  boat  5  yet  I  felt  some- 
thing ominous  in  this  silent,  stifled  noon.  After 
all,  I  ought  to  have  scotched  the  rusty,  red-bel- 
lied water-snake  leering  at  me  now.  The  croak 
of  the  great  blue  heron  sounded  again  ;  then  far 
away,  mysterious  and  spirit-like,  floated  a  soft 
qua,  qua,  qua — the  cry  of  the  least  bittern  out  of 
the  heart  of  the  swamp. 

I  loosed  the  grape-vine,  put  in  my  paddle,  and 
turned  down-stream,  with  an  urgent  desire  to 
get  out  of  the  swamp,  out  where  I  could  see 
about  me.  I  made  no  haste,  lest  the  stream,  the 
swamp,  the  something  that  made  me  uneasy, 
[130] 


should  know.  Not  that  I  am  superstitious, 
though  I  should  have  beeu  had  I  lived  when  the 
land  was  all  swamp  and  wood  and  prairie ;  and 
I  should  be  now  were  I  a  sailor.  My  boat  slipped 
swiftly  along  under  the  thick -shadowing  trees, 
and  rounding  a  sharp  bend,  brought  me  to  the 
open  pond,  to  the  sky,  and  to  a  sight  that  ex- 
plained my  disquietude.  The  west,  half-way  to 
the  zenith,  was  green — the  black-and-blue  green 
of  bruised  flesh.  Out  of  it  shot  a  fork  of  light- 
ning, and  behind  it  rumbled  muffled  thunder. 

There  was  no  time  to  descend  the  pond.  I 
could  already  hear  the  wind  across  the  silence 
and  suspense.  It  was  one  of  the  supreme  mo- 
ments of  the  summer.  The  very  trees  seemed 
breathless  and  awe-struck.  Pushing  quickly 
to  the  wooded  shore,  I  drew  out  the  boat,  turned 
it  over,  and  crawled  under  it  just  as  the  leaves 
stirred  with  the  first  cool,  wet  breath. 

There  was  an  instant's  lull,  a  tremor  through 
the  ground  ;  then  the  rending  and  crunching  of 
the  wind  monster  in  the  oaks,  the  shriek  of  the 
forest  victim— and  the  wind  was  gone.  The 
rain  followed  with  fearful  violence,  the  lightning 
sizzled  and  cracked  among  the  trees,  and  the 
[140] 


thunder  burst  just  above  the  boat— all  holdiiig 
on  to  finish  the  wind's  work. 

It  was  soon  over.  The  leaves  were  dripping 
when  I  crept  out  of  my  shell ;  the  afternoon  sun 
was  blinking  through  a  million  gleaming  tears, 
and  the  storm  was  rumbling  far  away,  behind 
the  swamp.  A  robin  lighted  upon  a  branch  over 
me,  and  set  off  its  load  of  drops,  which  rattled 
down  on  my  boat's  bottom  like  a  charge  of  shot. 
I  glided  into  the  stream.  Down  the  pond  where 
I  had  seen  the  sullen  clouds  was  now  an  inde- 
scribable freshness  and  glory  of  shining  hills  and 
shining  sky.  The  air  had  been  washed  and  was 
still  hanging  across  the  heavens  undried.  The 
maple-leaves  showed  silver  5  the  flock  of  chim- 
ney-swifts had  returned,  and  among  them,  twin- 
kling white  and  blue  and  brown,  were  tree- 
swallows  and  barn-swallows  squeaking  in  their 
flight  like  new  harness ;  a  pair  of  night-hawks 
played  back  and  forth  across  the  water,  too, 
awakened,  probably,  by  the  thunder,  or  else  mis- 
taken in  the  green  darkness  of  the  storm,  think- 
ing it  the  twilight ;  and  the  creek  up  and  down 
as  far  as  I  could  hear  was  ringing  with  bird- 
calls. 

[141] 


There  had  been  a  perceptible  rise  and  quick- 
ening of  the  current.  It  was  slightly  roiled  and 
carried  a  floatage  of  broken  twigs,  torn  leaves, 
with  here  and  there  a  golden-green  tulip-petal, 
like  the  broken  wings  of  butterflies. 

I  was  in  no  hurry  now,  in  no  disquietude. 
The  swamp  and  the  storm  were  at  my  back. 
Before  me  lay  the  pond,  the  pastures,  and  the 
roofs  of  a  human  village— all  bathed  in  the 
splendor  of  the  year's  divinest  hour.  It  had  not 
been  a  perfect  day,  but  these  closing  hours  were 
perfect,  so  perfect  that  they  redeemed  the  whole, 
and  not  that  day  only :  they  were  perfect 
enough  to  have  redeemed  the  whole  of  creation 
travailing  till  then  in  pain. 

Because  I  turned  from  all  this  sunset  glory  to 
find  out  what  little  bird  was  making  the  very  big 
fuss  near  by,  and  because,  parting  the  foliage  of 
an  arrow- wood  bush,  I  looked  with  exquisite 
pleasure  into  the  nest  of  a  white-eyed  vireo, 
does  it  mean  that  I  am  still  unborn  as  to  soul? 
For  some  reason  it  was  a  relief  to  look  away 
from  that  west  of  vast  and  burning  color  to  the 
delicately  dotted  eggs  in  the  tiny  cradle— the 
same  relief  felt  in  descending  from  a  mountain- 
[142] 


top  to  the  valley ;  in  turning  from  the  sweep  of 
the  sea  to  watch  beach-fleas  hopping  over  the 
sand  ;  in  giving  over  the  wisdom  of  men  for  the 
gabble  of  my  little  boys. 

How  the  vireo  scolded  !  and  her  mate  !  He 
half  sang  his  threat  and  defiance.  "Come,  get 
out  of  this  !  Come  ;  do  you  hear  ?  "  he  cried  over 
and  over,  as  I  peeked  into  the  nest.  It  was  a 
thick-walled,  exquisite  bit  of  a  basket,  rimmed 
round  with  green,  growing  moss,  worked  over 
with  shredded  bark  and  fragments  of  yellow 
wood  from  a  punky  stump  across  the  stream, 
and  suspended  by  spider-webs  upon  two  parallel 
twigs  about  three  feet  above  the  water.  It  was 
not  consciously  worked  out  by  the  birds,  of 
course,  but  the  patch  of  yellow- wood  fragments 
on  the  side  of  the  nest  exactly  matched  the  size 
and  color  of  the  fading  cymes  of  arrow-wood 
blossoms  all  over  the  bush,  so  that  I  mistook 
the  little  domicile  utterly  on  first  parting  the 
leaves.  A  crow  or  a  snake  would  never  have 
discovered  it  from  that  side. 

Paddling  down,  I  was  soon  out  of  earshot  of 
the  scolding  vireos,  but  the  little  cock's  vigor- 
ous, ringing  song  followed  me  to  the  head  of  the 
[143] 


pond.  Flying  heavily  over  from  the  meadows 
with  folded  neck  and  dangling  legs  came  a  little 
green  heron — the  "poke."  I  spun  round  be- 
hind a  big  clump  of  elder  to  watch  him  ;  but  he 
saw  me,  veered,  gulped  aloud,  and  pulled  off 
with  a  rapid  stroke  up  the  creek. 

As  I  turned,  my  eye  fell  upon  a  soft,  yellow- 
ish something,  in  the  rose-bushes  across  the 
docks.  I  was  slow  to  believe.  It  was  too  good 
to  be  credited  all  at  once.  Within  three  paddle- 
lengths  of  my  boat,  in  a  patch  of  dark  that  must 
be  a  nest,  stood  my  least  bittern. 

I  sat  still  for  several  seconds,  tasting  the  joy  of 
my  discovery  and  anticipating  the  look  into  the 
nest.  Then,  upon  my  knees  in  the  bow  of  the 
skiff,  I  pulled  up  by  means  of  the  stout  dock- 
leaves  until  almost  able  to  tauch  the  bird,  when 
she  walked  off  down  a  dead  stalk  to  the  ground, 
clucking  and  growling  at  me. 

It  was  n't  a  nest  to  boast  of ;  but  she  might 
boast  of  her  eggs,  for  there  was  more  of  eggs  than 
of  nest— a  great  deal  more.  A  few  sticks  had 
been  laid  upon  the  ends  of  the  bending  rose- 
bushes, and  this  flimsy,  inadequate  platform  was 
literally  covered  by  the  five  dirty-white  eggs. 
[144] 


The  hen  had  to  stand  on  the  bushes  straddling 
the  nest  in  order  to  brood.  How  she  ever  got  as 
close  to  the  nest  as  that  without  spilling  its  con- 
tents was  hard  to  see  ;  for  I  took  an  egg  out  and 
had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  putting  it  back,  so 
little  room  was  there,  so  near  to  nothing  for  it 
to  rest  upon. 

Working  back  into  the  channel,  I  gave  the 
skiff  to  the  easy  current  and  drew  slowly  along 
toward  the  foot  of  the  pond. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  hill ;  the 
flame  had  faded  from  the  sky,  and  over  the 
rim  of  the  circling  slopes  poured  the  soft,  cool 
twilight,  with  a  breeze  as  soft  and  cool,  and  a 
spirit  that  was  prayer.  Drifting  across  the 
pond  as  gently  as  the  gray  half-light  fell  a 
shower  of  lint  from  the  willow  catkins.  The 
swallows  had  left ;  but  from  the  leafy  darkness 
of  the  copse  in  front  of  me,  piercing  the  dreamy, 
foamy  roar  of  the  distant  dam,  came  the  notes 
of  a  wood-thrush,  pure,  sweet,  and  peaceful, 
speaking  the  soul  of  the  quiet  time.  My  boat 
grated  softly  on  the  sandy  bottom  of  the  cove 
and  swung  in.  Out  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
wooded  shore,  out  over  the  pond,  a  thin  white 


veil  was  creeping— the  mist,  the  breath  of  the 
sleeping  water,  the  spirit  of  the  stream.  And 
away  up  the  creek  a  distorted,  inarticulate 
sound— the  hoarse,  guttural  croak  of  the  great 
blue  heron,  the  weird,  uncanny  cry  of  the  night, 
the  mock,  the  menace  of  the  tangled,  untamed 
swamp ! 


[146] 


THE   DRAGON   OF   THE  SWALE 


M 


THE  DRAGON  OF  THE  SWALE 

Y  path  to  Cubby  Hollow  ran  along  a  tum- 
bling worm-fence,  down  a  gravelly  slope, 
and  across  a  strip  of  swale,  through  which  flowed 
the  stream  that  farther  on  widened  into  the 
Hollow.  A  small  jungle  of  dog-roses,  elder,  and 
blackberry  tangled  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
spreading  into  flanks  of  cinnamon-fern  that  crept 
well  up  the  hillsides. 

As  I  descended  the  gravelly  slope,  my  path  led 
through  the  ferns  into  a  tunnel  of  vines,  to  a 
rail  over  the  water,  and  on  up  to  the  woods.  By 
the  middle  of  June  the  tangle,  except  by  the 
half-broken  path,  was  almost  rabbit-proof.  The 
[149] 


rank  ferns  waved  to  my  chin,  and  were  so  thick 
that  they  left  little  trace  of  my  passing  until  late 
in  the  summer. 

This  bit  of  the  swale  from  the  lower  edge  of 
the  gravelly  slope  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  on 
the  opposite  slope  was  the  lair  of  a  dragon.  My 
path  cut  directly  across  it. 

Perhaps  the  dragon  had  been  there  ever  since 
I  had  known  the  swale,  and  summer  after  sum- 
mer had  allowed  me  to  cross  unchallenged.  I 
do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  one  day  he  rose 
out  of  the  ferns  before  me  —  the  longest,  ugliest, 
boldest  beast  that  ever  withstood  me  in  the  quiet 
walks  about  home. 

It  was  a  day  in  early  July,  hot  and  very  close. 
I  was  wading  the  sunken  trail,  much  as  one 
"treads  water,"  my  head  not  always  above  the 
surface  of  the  fronds,  when,  suddenly,  close  to 
my  side  the  ferns  in  a  single  spot  were  violently 
shaken.  Instantly  ahead  of  me  they  whirled 
again ;  and  before  I  could  think,  off  across  the 
path  was  another  rush  and  whirl  —  then  stirless 
silence. 

I  knew  what  it  meant.     These  were  not  the 
sudden,  startled  leaps  of  three  animals,  but  the 
[150] 


lightning  movements  of  one.  I  had  crossed  the 
path  of  a  swamp  black-snake,  and  judging  from 
the  speed  and  whirl,  it  was  a  snake  of  uncommon 
size. 

The  path,  a  few  paces  farther  on,  opened  into 
a  small  patch  of  low  grass.  Just  as  I  was  getting 
through  the  brake  to  this  spot  I  stopped  short 
with  a  chill.  In  the  ferns  near  me  shrilled  a 
hissing  whistle,  a  weird,  creepy  whistle  that 
made  me  cold  —  a  fierce,  menacing  sound,  all 
edge,  and  so  thin  that  it  slivered  every  nerve 
in  me.  And  then,  without  a  stir  in  the  brake, 
up  out  of  the  low  grass  in  front  of  me  rose  a 
blue-black,  glittering  head. 

I  have  little  faith  in  the  spell  of  a  snake's  eye, 
yet  for  a  moment  I  was  held  by  the  subtle,  mas- 
terful face,  that  had  risen  so  unexpectedly,  so 
coolly  before  me.  It  was  lifted  a  foot  out  of  the 
grass.  The  head  upon  its  lithe,  round  neck  was 
poised  motionless,,  but  set  as  with  a  hair-spring. 
The  flat,  pointed  face  was  turned  upon  me,  so 
that  I  could  see  a  patch  of  white  upon  the  throat. 
Evidently  the  snake  had  just  sloughed  an  old 
skin,  for  the  sunlight  gleamed  iridescent  on  the 
shining  jet  scales.  It  was  not  a  large  head  ;  it 
[151] 


lacked  the  shovel-nose  and  the  heavy,  horrid 
jaws  of  the  rattle-snake.  But  it  was  clean-cut, 
with  power  in  every  line  of  jaw  and  neck  ;  with 
power  and  speed  and  certainty  in  the  pose,  so 
easy,  ready,  and  erect.  There  was  no  fear  in 
the  creature's  eye,  something  rather  of  aggres- 
siveness, and  of  such  evil  cunning  that  I  stood 
on  guard. 

Afraid  of  a  snake  ?  of  a  black -snake?  No.  I 
think,  indeed,  there  are  few  persons  who  really 
do  fear  snakes.  It  is  not  fear,  but  nerves.  I 
have  tamed  more  black -snakes  than  I  have 
killed.  I  should  not  care  a  straw  if  one  bit  me. 
Yet,  for  all  of  that,  the  meeting  with  any  black- 
snake  is  so  unlocked  for  as  always  to  be  unnerv- 
ing. But  let  a  huge  one  whip  about  you  in  the 
brake,  chill  you  with  an.  unearthly  hissing 
whistle,  then  suddenly  rise  in  front  of  you, 
glittering,  challenging,  sinister !  You  will  be 
abashed.  I  was  ;  and  I  shall  never  outgrow  the 
weakness. 

It  was  a  big  snake.     I  had  not  been  mistaken 

in  its  size.     There  is  nothing  on   earth   that 

shrinks  as  a  dead  snake  ;  and  this  one,  so  far  as  I 

know,  is  still  alive  ;  yet,  allowing  generously  for 

[152] 


my  imagination,  I  am  sure  the  creature  measured 
six  feet.  His  neck,  just  behind  the  jaws,  was 
nearly  the  size  of  a  broom-handle,  which  meant 
a  long,  hard  length  curved  out  in  the  ferns  be- 
hind. It  was  a  male  ;  I  could  tell  by  the  peculiar 
nmsk  on  the  air,  an  odor  like  cut  cucumbers. 

Fully  a  minute  we  eyed  each  other.  Then  I 
took  a  step  forward.  The  glittering  head  rose 
higher.  Off  in  the  ferns  there  beat  a  warning 
tattoo  —  the  loud  whir  of  the  snake's  tail  against 
a  skunk-cabbage  leaf. 

In  my  hand  was  a  slender  dogwood  switch 
that  I  had  been  poking  into  the  holes  of  the 
digger-wasps  up  the  hillside.  If  one  thing  more 
than  another  will  turn  a  snake  tail  to  in  a  hurry 
it  is  the  song  of  a  switch.  Expecting  to  see  this 
overbold  fellow  jump  out  of  his  new  skin  and 
lunge  off  into  the  swale,  I  leaned  forward  and 
made  the  stick  sing  under  his  nose.  But  he  did 
not  jump  or  budge.  He  only  bent  back  out  of 
range,  swayed  from  side  to  side,  and  drew  more 
of  his  black  length  out  into  the  low  grass  to 
better  his  position. 

The  lidless  eyes  and  scale-cased  face  of  a  snake 
might  seem   incapable   of  more  than  one  set 
[153] 


expression.  Can  hate  and  fear  show  there! 
They  certainly  can,  at  least  to  my  imagination. 
If  ever  hate  and  fear  mantled  a  face,  they  did 
this  one  in  the  grass.  The  sound  of  the  switch 
only  maddened  the  creature.  He  had  too  long 
dictated  terms  in  this  part  of  the  swale  to  crawl 
aside  for  me. 

Nor  would  I  give  way  to  him.  But  I  ceased 
switching,  drew  back  a  step,  and  looked  at  him 
with  more  respect  than  I  ever  before  showed  a 
snake. 

The  curved  neck  straightened  at  that,  the 
glinting  head  swayed  forward,  and  shivering 
through  me  as  the  swish  of  a  stick  never  shivered 
through  a  snake,  sounded  that  unearthly  hissing 
whistle.  For  a  second  —  for  just  the  fraction  of 
a  second  that  it  takes  to  jump  —  I  was,  not 
scared,  but  shocked  ;  and  I  slipped  on  something 
underfoot.  In  three  directions  I  wallowed  the 
ferns  before  I  got  to  my  feet  to  watch  the  snake 
again,  and  by  that  time  the  snake  was  gone. 

I  found  myself  somewhat  muddy  and  breathing 
a  little  hard ;  but  I  was  not  wholly  chagrined. 
I  had  heard  and  seen  a  black -snake  whistle.     I 
had  never  even  known  of  the  habit  before. 
[154] 


Since  then  I  have  seen  one  other  snake  do  it, 
and  I  think  I  have  heard  the  sound  three  or 
four  times.  It  is  almost  indescribable.  The 
jaws  were  closed  as  it  was  made,  not  even  the 
throat  moving,  that  I  could  see.  The  air  seemed 
to  be  blown  violently  through  the  nostrils, 
though  sounding  as  if  driven  through  the  teeth— 
a  shrilling  hiss,  fine  and  piercing,  which  one  not 
so  much  hears  as  feels,  crisping  cold  along  his 
nerves. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  I  believe  this 
whistle  is  a  mating-call.  Even  the  forked 
tongue  (or  maybe  the  nose)  of  a  snake  grows 
vocal  with  love.  If  only  the  Sphinx  had  not  pos- 
sessed a  heart  of  stone  !  No  matter  about  its 
lips  ;  with  a  heart  to  know  the  "spring  running" 
we  should  have  heard  its  story  long  ago.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  the  college  sophomore  was  not 
mixing  his  observations  and  Sunday-school  mem- 
ories when  he  wrote,  describing  the  dawn  of  a 
spring  morning  (I  quote  from  his  essay)  :  "Be- 
neath in  the  water  the  little  fishes  darted  about 
the  boat ;  above  the  little  birds  twittered  in  the 
branches ;  while  off  on  a  sunny  log  in  the  pond 
the  soft,  sibilant  croak  of  the  mud-turtle  was 
[155] 


heard  on  the  shore."  If  we  could  happen  upon 
the  niud-turtle  mad  with  love,  I  am  sure  we 
should  find  that  he  had  a  voice— a  "soft,  sibilant 
croak,"  who  knows  ? 

I  had  long  known  the  tradition  among  the 
farmers  of  the  black-snake's  trailing  its  mate, 
following  her  by  scent  through  grass  and  brush, 
persistent  and  sure  as  a  sleuth-hound,  until  at 
last  she  is  won.  I  had  been  told  of  this  by  eye- 
witnesses over  and  over,  but  I  had  always  put  it 
down  as  a  snake  story,  for  these  same  witnesses 
would  also  tell  me  the  hoop -snake  story,  only  it 
was  their  grandfathers,  always,  who  had  seen 
this  creature  take  its  tail  in  its  mouth  and  roll, 
and  hit  and  kill  a  fifty-dollar  apple-tree  (the 
tree  was  invariably  worth  fifty  dollars).  I  had 
small  faith  in  the  trailing  tale. 

One  day,  the  summer  after  my  encounter  in 
the  ferns,  I  was  sitting  upon  a  harrow  at  the 
edge  of  the  gravelly  field  that  slopes  to  the 
swale,  when  a  large  black-snake  glided  swiftly 
across  the  lane  and  disappeared  in  the  grass  be- 
yond. It  had  been  gone  perhaps  a  minute, 
when  I  heard  another  stir  behind  me,  and 
turning,  saw  high  above  the  weeds  and  dewberry- 
[156] 


vines  the  neck  and  head  of  a  second  black- 
snake. 

He  was  coming  swiftly,  evenly,  carrying  his 
gleaming  head  over  a  foot  from  the  ground,  and 
following  hard  upon  the  trail  of  the  first  snake. 
He  hit  very  near  the  smooth,  flowing  mark  in 
the  dust  of  the  lane.  Here  she  had  crossed. 
Here  he  was  about  to  cross  when  he  caught 
sight  of  me. 

For  a  startled  instant  he  stiffened,  threw  him- 
self on  the  defensive,  and  showed  a  white  patch 
under  his  chin,  an  ugly,  blazing  light  in  his  eye, 
and  a  peculiarly  aggressive  attitude  that  there 
was  no  mistaking.  I  had  seen  this  snake  before. 
I  knew  him.  He  was  the  dragon  of  the  swale. 

Only  pausing,  he  whirled,  struck  the  track, 
and  sped  on,  his  round  black  body  stretching 
from  rut  to  rut  of  the  lane.  A  hundred  feet 
beyond  in  the  grass  I  saw  his  glittering  head 
rise  and  sway  with  a  swimming  motion  as  he 
trailed  the  long,  lithe  beauty  that  was  leading 
him  this  lightning  race  across  the  fields. 

This  was  not  the  last  time  he  crossed  my  path. 
He  never  withstood  me  again ;  but  he  thwarted 
me  several  times.  Once  as  I  was  descending  the 
[157] 


slope  I  saw  him  gliding  down  from  a  low  cedar. 
The  distressing  cries  of  two  chippies  told  me 
what  he  had  been  doing  in  the  tree ;  I  did  not 
need  to  look  at  the  half-dislodged  nest.  Then 
and  there  I  vowed  to  kill  him,  but  from  that 
moment  I  never  set  eyes  on  him  again.  His 
evil  work,  however,  went  on.  In  a  clump  of 
briers  across  the  stream  was  the  nest  of  a  pair 
of  redbirds  that  I  was  watching.  One  day  just 
before  the  young  could  fly  they  were  carried 
off.  I  knew  who  did  it,  On  the  same  side,  up 
under  the  fence  by  the  woods,  a  litter  of  rabbits 
was  destroyed.  The  snake  killed  them.  It 
was  he,  too,  who  ate  the  eggs  of  the  bluebirds 
in  the  old  apple-tree  along  the  fence  in  the  ad- 
joining field. 

There  must  be  a  dragon  in  the  way,  I  sup- 
pose—  in  the  way  even  of  nature  study.  There 
are  unpleasant,  perhaps  unnecessary,  and  evil 
creatures— snakes !— in  the  fields  and  woods, 
which  we  must  be  willing  to  meet  and  tolerate 
for  the  love  within  us.  Tick-seeds,  beggar- 
needles,  mud,  mosquitos,  rain,  heat,  hawks,  and 
snakes  haunt  all  our  paths,  hindering  us  some- 
times, though  never  really  blocking  the  way. 
[158] 


But  the  dragon  in  the  swale— ought  I  to  tol- 
erate him?  No.  There  are  moments  when  I 
should  be  glad  to  kill  him,  yet  I  doubt  if  the 
swale  would  be  quite  so  wild  and  thrilling  a 
spot  if  I  knew  there  was  no  dragon  to  meet  me 
as  I  crossed.  But  the  redbirds,  bluebirds,  rab- 
bits'? I  see  no  shrinking  in  their  numbers  be- 
cause of  the  snake.  A  few  of  them  breed  as 
they  always  have  along  the  swale.  There  are 
worse  enemies  than  the  dragon,  though  he  is 
bad  enough. 


[159] 


TICKLE-BIRDS  AND  THE  COCCINELLID^ 


TICKLE-BIRDS  AND  THE  COCCIKELLID.E 


I  1ST  a  town  where  untrained  observation  rages, 
so  the  story  goes,  an  elderly  lady  met  an 
acquaintance  in  a  shady  avenue  and  asked  her  : 
"  Do  you  know  anything  about  birds'?" 
"  No/'  said  the   other ;    "I  'm  sorry,  but   I 
don't." 

"Sorry!  Oh,  you  're  such  a  relief!  I  just 
met  Mrs.  C.,  and  she  grasped  my  hand,  gazed 
upward,  and  exclaimed  :  '  Oh,  did  you  hear  that 
perfectly  lovely  spike-beaked,  purple-eyed 
tickle-bird  V 

[163] 


"  I  had  n't  gone  a  block  before  I  met  Mrs.  K. 
'Hush!'  she  said  ecstatically.  ( Don't  move  a 
muscle  !  Right  up  there  on  that  branch  is  one 
of  those  rare,  exquisite,  speckle-winged,  ring- 
tailed  screamers.' 

"  You  and  I  seem  to  be  the  only  sane  people 
left," 

I  happen  to  know  the  above  Mrs.  C.  and  Mrs. 
K.  personally.  I  meet  them  everywhere. 
When  they  are  not  listening  to  the  purple-eyed 
tickle -bird,  they  are  whispering  "  Twinkle 
twinkle "  to  the  stars,  or  calling,  as  they  pace 
the  beach,  "  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue 
Ocean."  They  love  the  out-of-doors.  They  ex- 
claim over  nature  with  the  lips  of  all  the  poets. 
They  adore  her !  All  the  time  they  go  about 
looking  for  wonderful  purple-eyed  tickle-birds 
and  screamers,  listening  for  wind  voices,  feeling 
for  wave  pulses,  and  dreaming,  forever  dream- 
ing, of  how  happy  the  morning  stars  must  be 
that  they  sing  together. 

All  of  which  is  good.     An  excellent  thing  it 
is  to  have  a  turn  of  rapture  now  and  again. 
Nature  herself  will  have  one  occasionally— in 
[164] 


June.  But  chronic  ecstasy,  the  extreme  and  not 
uncommon  type  of  the  afore-mentioned  ladies,  is 
a  disease,  a  mental,  a  moral  disease  indeed,  which 
must  be  cured  before  we  can  understand  and 
really  love  the  out-of-doors.  Nature  hates  cant. 

We  need  to  hear  old  Triton's  wreathed  horn 
—  the  oftener  the  better.  The  world  of  things, 
mere  things,  is  still  very  much  with  us.  We  are 
in  no  danger  from  overmuch  poetry.  The 
trouble  with  the  tickle-bird-screamer  persons 
is  not  that  they  find  too  much  poetry  in  nature, 
but  that  they  really  find  none  at  all.  For  they 
do  not  look  in  the  right  place  for  it.  Poetry  is 
not  in  birds  and  sunsets  and  moonlight,— not  in 
things, — but,  like  the  kingdom  of  heaven  and 
other  things  divine,  it  is  in  us,  in  ourselves.  It 
is  a  mistake  to  go  about,  like  Orlando  and  Mrs. 
C.,  sticking  poems,  the  poets'  poems,  over  earth 
and  sea  and  sky,  imagining  that  this  is  loving 
nature,  that  this  is  knowing  the  out-of-doors. 

How  shall  we  see  mice  in  the  grass  or  hear 
toads  in  the  puddles  with  our  heads  cloud- 
wreathed  and  our  spirits  afloat  in  the  ether  be- 
yond the  stars  ?  Who  wants  to  see  mice  or  hear 
toads'?  Not  Mrs.  C.,  nor  Mrs.  K.,  nor  many  of 
[165] 


the  rest  of  us,  for  what  we  feel  is  necessary,  when 
loosed  in  the  fields  and  woods,  is  to  have  those 
blank  misgivings  of  the  creature  that  moved 
about  in  worlds  not  realized.  We  have  them, 
too,  many  of  them,  and  exceedingly  blank  ones. 
Misgivings,  of  course,  the  naturalist  will  have. 
But  he  never  hunts  for  them,  not  the  blank 
species  anyway.  Nor  does  the  poet.  We  think 
of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  tramping  the 
Quantock  Hills  together  seeking  ecstasies  and 
verses  as  we  should  seek  heather  and  daisies. 
Far  from  it.  A  poet  rarely  has  his  raptures 
out-of-doors  ;  and  he  never  runs  one  down.  He 
roams  the  hills,  seeing  things.  When  he  returns 
and  begins  to  think  about  them,  then  he  drinks 
the  divine  draught. 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought, 

says  the  poet,  then  adds  : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

[166] 


The  poet  and  the  naturalist  seldom  soar  into 
heaven  when  the  open  sky  is  directly  over  them. 
They  ride  a  centaur  out-of-doors.  They  keep 
Pegasus  stalled  in  the  study. 

Every  close,  sympathetic  observer  of  nature 
ought  to  hope  and  patiently  work  for  those  rare 
moments  of  wide,  free  vision  when  he  stands 
upon  the  heights,  when  the  veil  of  distance  falls, 
shrouding  all  with  largeness,  mystery,  and  beauty. 
It  is  his  rignt  to 

Clasp  the  crag  with  crooked  hands 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 

as  truly  as  the  eagle's.  Only  he  must  not  roost 
and  nest  there.  Such  visions  are  vouchsafed 
occasionally  to  prophets,  poets,  and  at  long  in- 
tervals to  naturalists  and  to  common  men.  Pis- 
gah  came  but  once  to  Moses,  though  his  pathway 
ran  forty  years  through  the  wilderness.  We  shall 
stand  on  Pisgah— but  not  until  we  have  wan- 
dered awhile  in  the  Plains  of  Moab. 

And  what  other  way  is  there  to  Pisgah  ?     The 

only  preparation  of  soul  for  the  grand  in  nature 

is  the  study  of  the  small  and  the  near  at  hand. 

We  must  reckon  infinite  things  in  terms  finite— 

[167] 


the  Matterhorn  by  the  hill  in  the  old  home  pas- 
ture. 

I  chanced  to  be  on  the  summit  of  Mount 
Washington  when  the  tickle-bird-screamer  ladies 
arrived  there.  They  came,  as  usual,  with  their 
thoughts  trailing  the  edges  of  the  universe,  and 
climbed  the  mountain,  as  I  knew  they  would, 
on  the  crazy,  snorting  little  engine,  stepping  at 
once  from  the  car  into  a  world  above  the  clouds. 
Better  that  way  than  never  to  stand  upon  the 
top  at  all.  The  railroad  is  a  boon  to  the  aged, 
the  weak-headed,  and  all  with  uncertain  hearts. 
But  for  the  healthy,  the  vigorous,  for  all  who 
want  to  pray  up  there,  the  only  road  is  the  path 
through  the  spruce  to  Hermit  Lake,  and  up  over 
the  Head  Wall  of  Tuckerman's  Ravine. 

There  is  no  preparation  for  the  summit  like 
the  struggle  through  those  narrow  forest  denies 
and  the  climb  over  the  grim  Head  Wall,  and, 
just  short  of  the  peak,  the  sight  of  a  tiny  sand- 
wort  in  the  Alpine  Garden  on  the  edge  of  the 
rent,  rocky  height. 

If  infinite  majesty  rolls  in  upon  the  soul  from 
the  mountain -peak,  no  less  does  infinite  beauty 
breathe  from  the  little  blossom  plucked  on  our 
[168] 


ascent.  One  who  can  climb  the  mountain  blind 
to  the  revelation,  unaware  of  the  mystery  in  the 
humblest  flower-cup,  has  no  eyes  for  the  far- 
rolling  mightiness  of  peak  and  plain  and  un- 
blurred  boundary  of  sky  revolving  round,  him  on 
the  summit. 

But  it  takes  a  trained  eye  to  see  the  sand- 
wort,  while  any  eye  not  totally  blind  can  shift 
about  in  its  socket  and  make  out  mountains  from 
the  top  of  Washington. 

The  tickle-bird-screamer  naturalists  have  a 
mere  passing,  fashionable  madness.  It  came 
suddenly  one  day,  during  a  parlor  lecture  on 
birds  ;  it  will  go  away  with  the  next  dog-show. 

Such  lovers  are  none  the  worse  for  their  pas- 
sion ;  only  they  never  come  to  know  the  out-of- 
doors.  Poetry,  lectures,  nature-books  are  for 
them,  and  museums  of  stuffed,  made  things. 
The  out-of-doors  requires  too  much  patience, 
alertness,  insight,  and  sincerity. 

II 

As  they  sat  on  the  porch,  so  this  story  goes, 
the  school  trustee  casually  called  attention  to  a 

[109] 


familiar  little  orange-colored  bug,  with  black 
spots  on  its  back,  that  was  crawling  on  the  floor. 

"I  s'pose  you  know  what  that  is?  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  applicant,  with  conviction  ; 
"that  is  a  Coccinella  septempunctata." 

"Young  man,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "a  feller  as 
don't  know  a  ladybug  when  he  sees  it  can't  get 
my  vote  for  teacher  in  this  deestrict." 

Now  it  happens  that  I  also  know  the  young 
school-teacher  of  the  above  story.  Indeed,  I 
fall  in  with  him  oftener  than  with  either  Mrs.  C. 
or  Mrs.  K.  of  the  tickle-birds.  He  is  college- 
bred.  He  observes  nature  "scientifically,"  he 
says.  He  knows  what  he  knows,  namely,  that 
Coccinella  septempunctata  is  septempunctata  and 
not  novemnotata.  All  he  knows  (and  what  else 
is  there  to  know?)  is  septempunctata  and  novem- 
notata—the  names  of  things,  the  places,  parts, 
laws,  and  theories  of  things.  He  is  the  text-book 
naturalist. 

We  have  been  afield   together  a  few  times, 

but  I  was  never  able  to  interest  or  surprise  him, 

because  there  were  no  surprises  left :  he  knew 

everything.      He  had    dissected    every   flower, 

[170] 


measured  every  bird,  stuck  a  pin  through  every 
butterfly ;  he  had  a  glacial  theory  for  every 
pebble,  a  chemical  theory  for  every  glow-worm, 
and  a  pile  of  science  for  the  color  of  the  autumn 
leaves  which  made  way  with  every  fleck  of  their 
glory. 

The  trustee  was  right :  the  young  man  was  not 
fit  for  a  teacher.  He  had  memorized  Coccinella 
septempunctata,  but  he  did  not  know  the  ladybug. 

Among  my  acquaintances  are  three  nature- 
students  of  this  family  Coccinellidce,  all  of  whom 
are  teachers.  One  of  these  used  to  go  into  the 
woods  carrying  long  lists  of  scientific  names  of 
flowers  written  out  on  paper,  which  he  conned 
by  the  way.  Along  a  familiar  stretch  of  road, 
across  a  plowed  field,  out  came  the  roll  of  names, 
and  he  would  mumble  :  "Pogonia  ophioglossoides, 
Pogonia  ophioglossoides,  ophioglossoides,  ophiog — " 
never  seeing  the  waves  chasing  each  other  across 
the  heavy-headed  wheat. 

Of  all  the  flowers  beautiful,  rare,  and  sweet, 
his  favorite,  I  think,  was  the  everlasting,  for  he 
said  to  me  one  day,  with  a  show  of  real  interest, 
"The  everlasting  has  the  longest  Latin  name  by 
two  letters  of  any  flower  I  have  analyzed." 
[171] 


The  second  student :  He  never  told  me  how  it 
happened  ;  whether  he  had  been  reading  poetry, 
had  been  advised  by  his  doctor  to  get  out-of- 
doors,  or  had  simply  found  himself  without  a 
hobby.  Anyhow,  one  winter  night  he  deter- 
mined that  he  would  study  birds.  He  waited 
until  morning,  then  started  for  Philadelphia, 
where  he  bought  all  the  bird-books  he  could 
find. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  beautiful  light  on  his 
face  as  he  told  me  the  exact  amount,  to  the  cent, 
that  the  enormous  pile  of  volumes  cost  him. 

He  put  the  literature  all  away  until  June,— 
until  things  were  ablare  with  bird-song,— then 
took  himself  and  his  library  to  Tuckahoe,  the 
birdiest  spot  in  New  Jersey,  and  there  began. 

This  trip  in  June  became  a  habit.  One  au- 
tumn I  met  him  in  the  city.  "How  did  the 
birding  go  last  summer  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"Slow,  slow,"  he  replied.  "Did  n't  do  much. 
But—"  with  an  emphasis  that  surely  meant  he 
had  seen  the  ivory-billed  woodpecker  or  the 
great  auk— "but  I  paid  expressage  to  Tuckahoe 
on  sixty-seven  pounds  of  bird-books  !  " 

Number  three  is  a  woman,  and  naturally  less 
[172] 


moderate  than  either  of  the-  men.  The  most 
scientific  thing  in  this  wide  world  is  a  scientific 
woman.  The  discovery  of  a  new  plant  in  this 
woman's  out-of-doors  is  like  the  finding  of  a  new 
pain  or  symptom  of  disease  in  her  body.  She 
hurries  to  the  doctors  to  have  it  identified,  ut- 
terly unhappy  until  they  have  told  her  its  name. 
I  have  known  her  to  travel  twenty-five  miles 
with  a  little  watery,  worthless  mushroom  in  the 
hope  of  finding  it  Mycena  galerlculata  or  M. 
parabolica — or  something,  it  did  n't  matter  what. 
Her  opera-glasses  lie  focused,  ready.  A  bird 
chirps  among  the  trees.  She  snatches  the  glasses, 
rushes  out,  then  rushes -in,  exclaiming  :  "It  flew 
over  the  garden  :  a  streak  of  black— a  patch  of 
yellow — a  short  tail.  A  new  one,  I  do  believe  ! 
It  '11  make  the  hundred  and  tenth  to  my  list." 

Once  a  thing  is  labeled,  what  more?  She 
loves  the  out-of-doors,  yearns  over  it ;  yearns  to 
bring  things  and  their  Latin  names  together. 
How  she  would  have  enjoyed  Adam's  place— 
having  the  animals  file  past  her  to  get  their 
names  !  The  joy  of  bending  low  at  the  approach 
of  the  little  orange-colored  bug  with  black  spots 
on  its  back,  and  saying:  "Your  name,  miss? 
[173] 


You  are  Coccinella  septempunctata.  And  you  ?  " 
—to  her  sister  lady  bug — "You  are  Coccinella, 
also,  but  you  are  novemnotata."  The  joy  of  it ! 
And  something  of  that  joy  is  hers,  for  she  has  a 
nature-study  class  at  a  young  ladies'  seminary. 

I  hardly  know  which  state  of  mind  is  farther 
from  the  mind  of  the  true  nature-lover— the 
ecstatic,  exclamatory  one,  that  goes  chanting 
rimes  and  verses  like  priests  and  spring  poets, 
or  the  analytical,  labeling  mind,  that  scours  the 
country  with  a  book,  finding  out  what  Linnaeus, 
Audubon,  and  Gray  called  things. 

Of  course  the  lover  of  the  out-of-doors  wants 
to  know — even  know  that  the  ladybug  is  Cocci- 
nella septempunctata  ;  but  classifying  the  world  of 
field  and  wood  is  only  the  beginning  of  know- 
ledge. How,  for  instance,  does  the  fact  that  the 
dandelion  is  Taraxacum  officinale  compare  with 
the  discovery  of  its  shining  face  in  the  cold,  wet 
death  of  some  February  roadside,  or  the  finding 
of  its  hoary  hairs  in  the  lining  of  a  chebec's 
nest!  And  to  the  exclamatory,  all-worshiping 
ones  what  mean  the  loving  lines  : 

Dear  common  flower  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

[174] 


if  these  worshipers  never  plucked  the  flower 
beside  a  dusty  road?  if  they  never  felt  May- 
time  open  in  their  hearts  at  sight  of  it?  if  no 
memories  of 

Meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

come  to  them  as  they  pass  it  by? 

The  true  nature-lover  knows  at  least  a  little, 
and  keeps  learning  all  the  time ;  he  goes  afield 
the  seasons  through  5  he  sees  accurately,  reports 
honestly,  interprets  humanly,  and  loves  sin- 
cerely. 


[175] 


THE   CEAZY   FLICKER 


M1 


THE  CRAZY   FLICKER 

"R.  BURROUGHS  somewhere  lias  said  that 
if  ever  a  flicker  goes  crazy,  he  will  go  crazy 
boring  holes.  I  never  doubt  anything  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs says  about  birds  and  beasts,  and  so  for  a 
good  many  years  I  have  confidently  expected 
that  when  I  found  a  crazy  flicker  I  should  find 
him,  as  Mr.  Burroughs  predicted,  boring  holes. 

Of  course  I  never  went  armed  with  gun  or 
glass,  expecting  to  meet  a  real  crazy,  mad-house 
flicker,  though  I  have  long  been  convinced  that 
the  whole  flicker  family  is  queer  and,  indeed, 
somewhat  crack-brained.  But  there  are  crazy 
flickers,  and  at  last  I  am  able  to  report  the  cases 
[179] 


of  two — two  that  bored  holes  in  barns  and  tin 
rain-pipes,  for  the  fiends  possessed  them. 

Out  in  the  broad  grain-fields  near  my  home,  a 
farmer  built  a  large  barn.  It  was  tight,  well- 
shingled,  and  sided  with  white  pine-boards  that 
lapped  at  the  edges,  so  that  not  a  streak  of  day- 
light crept  in  anywhere. 

It  was  early  spring.  One  day  shortly  after 
the  barn  was  finished,  and  while  it  was  still 
empty,  a  flicker  lighted  upon  the  ridge-pole  and 
hammered.  She  (I  am  not  sure  of  the  sex  in 
either  of  the  cases)  jumped  into  the  air  at  the 
first  rap.  How  it  sounded  !  Never  before  had 
she  struck  anything  with  such  a  ring  to  it. 
What  a  glorious  hole  for  a  nest  there  must  be  in 
there !  Why,  if  the  brood  should  happen  to 
come  twenty  strong  (which  was  not  past  hoping 
for),  each  young  one  could  have  a  bed  and  a 
room  all  to  himself — a  condition  of  affairs  alto- 
gether unheard  of,  up  to  this  time,  in  flickerdom. 

Now  I  saw  the  flicker  when  she  discovered  this 
barn,  and  while  I  must  say  that  she  did  not 
utter  one  of  these  exclamations,  yet  I  do  believe 
she  thought  them  all,  for  she  instantly  set  to  hunt- 
ing for  a  good  place  at  which  to  begin  boring. 
[180] 


All  of  this  was  sane  enough  from  the  flicker 
point  of  view.  She  was  not  a  very  experienced 
bird  certainly,  or  she  would  have  known  the 
size  of  the  rumbling  cavern  beneath  ;  yet  many 
another  flicker  has  had  to  dig  through  in  order 
to  learn. 

Next  to  the  thud  of  soft  punky  wood— which 
means  fat  grubs— the  ring  of  hollow  wood  with 
a  thin  hard  shell  is  most  musical  to  a  flicker's 
ears,  for  this  is  the  sound  of  a  good  nesting-place. 
The  flicker  is  very  much  of  a  family  bird. 

The  roof  of  the  barn  did  not  suit.  It  is  not 
natural  for  a  flicker  to  stand  like  ordinary 
beings  and  work  ;  so  she  flew  round  to  an  end  of 
the  barn  where  she  could  hang  on  to  the  per- 
pendicular siding,  bracing  herself  by  her  spine- 
pointed  tail.  Choosing  a  spot  here  at  the  lapping 
of  two  boards,  she  diligently  began. 

I  wish  I  could  have  seen  the  expression  on 
her  face  and  read  her  thoughts  when  she  got 
through  and  found  herself  inside  an  empty  barn. 
She  must  have  been  the  most  amazed  and  mysti- 
fied bird  in  the  region,  if  she  was  sane  enough 
to  think  at  all.  Instead  of  a  neat,  snug  cavity 
sufficient  to  turn  round  in,  she  had  bored  into 
[181] 


an  empty  hay-loft.  Perhaps  an  English  sparrow 
would  not  have  been  daunted  at  the  prospect  of 
filling  up  a  haymow  with  a  nest,  but  the  flicker 
was. 

Or  else  she  was  not  house-hunting,  as  I  first 
thought,  but  simply  a  demented  flicker,  crazy 
over  holes.  For  now  her  madness  showed  itself. 
Out  she  came,  hopped  sidewise  across  a  few 
boards,  tapped,  listened,  and  began  a  new  hole. 
This,  of  course,  opened  into  the  same  mammoth 
cave.  What  of  it?  Not  where  the  hole  opened, 
but  the  boring  of  it ;  that  was  the  thing.  So, 
hopping  along  to  another  seam,  she  went  through 
again. 

And  not  three  times  only.  Day  after  day 
either  she  or  the  other  flickers  in  the  neighbor- 
hood kept  boring  away,  until  soon  the  barn  be- 
came riddled  with  holes  as  if  it  had  received  a 
severe  cannonading. 

It  was  all  very  interesting  for  the  naturalist. 
The  farmer,  however,  who  had  not  built  the  barn 
for  the  amusement  of  insane  birds,  saw  no  good 
in  the  holes  at  all. 

Of  like  mind  with  the  farmer  were  the  owners 
of  some  fine  houses  in  a  town  not  far  from  me. 
[182] 


Here  the  holes  were  drilled  into  the  rain-pipes. 
I  did  not  see  the  insane  bird  this  time,  but  a 
naturalist  friend  who  did  reported  it  a  male 
that  had  gone  mad  with  love. 

The  bird  came  back  early  in  the  spring,  and 
announced  himself  by  beating  a  thunderous 
tattoo  on  a  galvanized-iron  chimney.  The  per- 
sons in  the  rooms  below  jumped  as  if  the  roof 
were  falling.  The  passers-by  on  the  street 
halted  to  gaze  around  in  wonder.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  seen.  Again  the  rattling,  ringing 
roll,  and  up  out  of  the  chimney  popped  the 
flicker,  in  an  ecstasy  over  his  new  drum— his 
"Spanish  guitar,"  for  he  was  certainly  calling  a 
mate,  though  not  another  flicker  had  yet  re- 
turned. 

Then  across  the  way,  on  the  top  of  a  neighbor- 
ing house,  he  spied  another,  larger  drum,  and  gal- 
loped over  there.  It  was  a  big  ventilator.  He 
hit  it,  and  it  boomed.  Catching  his  toes  around 
an  iron  hoop  that  circled  it,  he  began  to  beat  a 
roll  to  wake  the  very  dead. 

The  mystery  is  that  his  bill  did  not  fly  into 
splinters.  But  it  did  not.  The  sound,  however, 
went  to  his  head.  He  got  stark  mad  with  the 
[183] 


noise,  crazier  and  crazier  over  galvanized  iron, 
until  he  went  to  boring  holes  into  the  rain-pipe. 

At  the  first  it  was  love,  doubtless,  that  ailed 
him ;  he  was  drumming  up  a  bride.  But  that 
his  tender  passion  soon  changed  to  an  insane 
delight  in  his  own  wonderful  self  is  very  evident. 
He  grew  enamoured  of  his  drumming.  Nor  is  he 
the  first  male  bird  I  have  known  thus  in  love. 
In  the  island  park  at  Detroit,  Michigan,  I  knew 
a  red-headed  woodpecker  to  serenade  himself 
long  after  the  mating  season  —  up,  in  fact,  to 
September,  the  time  I  left  the  park  woods.  He 
would  get  inside  the  zinc  ventilator  of  the  club- 
house and  make  the  island  ring. 

It  was  several  days  after  his  arrival  before  this 
second  crazy  flicker  attacked  the  rain-pipes.  Up 
to  that  time  the  observers  in  the  neighborhood 
had  looked  upon  him  as  a  harmless,  ardent  lover 
who  could  not  express  half  his  feeling  upon  an 
ordinary  rotten  stub,  and  so  had  taken  to  the 
hollow-sounding  chimneys.  They  were  amused. 

Suddenly  that  all  changed.    They  had  wakened 

to  the  fact  that  the  bird  was  a  raving  maniac  j 

for'  what  did  they  see  one  morning  but  the 

flicker  high  up  under  the  corner  of  the  roof, 

[184] 


clutching  a  small  iron  bracket  in  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  drilling  a  hole  through  the  rain-pipe  ! 

He  was  hammering  like  a  tinsmith,  and  already, 
when  discovered,  had  cut  a  hole  half  as  big  as 
one's  fist.  He  had  not  tried  to  drill  before ;  he 
had  been  happy  with  the  sound.  Something, 
however,  either  the  size,  shape,  or  ring  of  the 
pipe,  suggested  "holes"  to  his  wild  wits,  and 
right  through  the  pipe  he  had  gone. 

It  was  not  grubs  that  he  was  after.  Maybe 
somewhere  in  his  mad  head  was  the  remote 
notion  of  a  nest.  Where,  however,  could  he 
have  found  a  mate  as  crazy  as  himself — crazy 
enough  to  have  built  in  such  a  place  ?  Young 
Mrs.  Flicker  is  an  exceedingly  spoony  bride ; 
love  in  a  cottage  is  just  to  her  liking ;  but  I 
have  yet  to  see  one  who  would  go  to  the  length 
of  a  rain-pipe. 

The  crazy  bird  was  finally  scared  away,  leaving 
several  indignant  citizens  behind,  who  heartily 
wished  they  had  taken  the  law  into  their  hands 
and  slain  him  as  a  menace  to  the  common- 
wealth. 


[185] 


SOME    FEIENDLY   BIRDS 


SOME   FRIENDLY    BIRDS 

TTTE  have  all  heard  the  pack  chanting  : 

Now  this  is  the  law  of  the  jungle  —  as  old  and 

as  true  as  the  sky  ; 
And  the  Wolf  that  shall  keep  it  may  prosper,  but  the 

Wolf  that  shall  break  it  must  die. 
As  the  creeper  that  girdles  the  tree-trunk,  the  Law 

runneth  forward  and  back  — 
For  the  strength  of  the  Pack  is  the  Wolf,  and  the 

strength  of  the  Wolf  is  the  Pack. 

We  have  seen  the  law  at  work  in  herd  and 
drove,  in  school  and  flock,  and  everywhere  it  is 
the  great  law  of  necessity— obey  or  die.  It 
obtains  among  men  as  well  as  among  beasts  and 
birds.  But  the  man-pack  has  broken,  because 
we  are  no  longer  mere  wolves,  and  a  higher  law 
[189] 


obtains.  We  have  scattered  as  a  pack  and  re- 
formed as  a  community— a  friendly  mingling  of 
pack  and  herd  and  school  and  flock. 

Nothing  like  this  has  happened  to  any  great 
extent  among  the  birds  and  beasts,  for  the  new 
earth  has  not  yet  come ;  but  many  interesting 
individual  friendships  have  been  recorded,  to 
which  every  close  observer  of  the  out-of-doors 
can  add  a  few. 

Allowance  must  always  be  made  for  false 
seeing  and  the  temperament  of  the  observer. 
One's  interpretations  are  matters  of  nature  and 
—of  constitution  sometimes.  The  facts  I  must 
see  with  the  eyes  of  my  neighbor ;  the  meaning 
of  the  facts  I  can  see  with  no  one's  eyes  but  my 
own.  The  following  observations  I  believe  are 
just  as  you  would  have  made  them  ;  their  inter- 
pretation is  my  own  and  may  not  agree  with 
yours  at  all. 

One  of  my  friends,  a  keen  and  trustworthy 
naturalist,  found  recently  that  a  pair  of  cat- 
birds were  building  a  nest  in  the  thick  tangle  of 
vines  just  outside  her  dining-room  window. 
She  soon  noticed  that  the  pair  of  robins  who 
had  eggs  in  a  neighboring  apple-tree  showed 
[190] 


extraordinary  interest  in  the  work  of  the  cat- 
birds. The  conduct  of  the  robins  was  very  un- 
usual, and  the  woman  began  to  watch. 

Evidently,  according  to  robin  standards,  some- 
thing about  the  new  nest  was  wrong,  something 
that  ought  to  be  changed  over  robiuwise.  The 
catbirds  were  not  building  just  right.  They  were 
a  young  couple,  doubtless ;  this  was  their  first  nest, 
and  the  robins,  who  had  built  scores  of  nests, 
looked  on  critically,  compassionately,  and  with  a 
desire  to  advise  that  was  almost  killing  them. 

The  work  went  on  for  a  day  or  two.  Then  it 
chanced  that  both  catbirds  flew  off  together  for 
more  building- material.  The  robins  were  watch- 
ing. They  could  hold  out  no  longer.  Taking  a 
hasty  look  around  to  make  sure  that  their  young 
neighbors  were  quite  gone,  one  of  the  robins  (the 
woman  in  the  window  was  too  astonished  to  note 
which)  dropped  to  the  ground,  picked  up  a  piece 
of  coarse  grass,  and  hurried  to  the  half -finished 
nest.  Stepping  quickly  in,  she  (it  must  have 
been  "she  ")  laid  the  straw  along  the  rim  of  the 
clumsy  nest,  and,  cuddling  down  inside,  drew  the 
ragged  walls  up  to  her  round,  shapely  breast  to 
mold  them  into  something  like  form. 
[191] 


It  is  almost  too  human  a  story  to  be  true. 
But  I  believe  it  to  be  true,  though  I  never  saw 
anything-  among  the  birds  quite  equal  to  it. 

The  catbirds  soon  returned  with  some  fine 
rootlets,  and  did  not  seem  to  notice  a  robin,  with 
head  cocked,  eying  them  from  a  corner  of  the 
grape-arbor. 

If  this  was  not  a  manifestation  of  friendship, 
it  surely  was  of  good  will— the  kind  of  good  will, 
I  must  admit,  that  among  us  humans  is  not 
always  appreciated. 

One  can  hardly  imagine  such  a  thing,  as  mutual 
benefit,  to  say  nothing  of  friendship,  in  the  com- 
mon home  life  of  fish-hawks,  crow-blackbirds, 
and  English  sparrows.  The  blackbirds  and 
hawks  might  get  on  together,  but  what  saint 
among  the  birds  could  live  with  an  English 
sparrow— could  be  friendly  with  him?  Yet  the 
fish -hawks'  nest  along  the  Delaware  Bay  which 
I  have  spoken  of  in  a  previous  chapter  harbors, 
besides  the  hawks,  a  small  community  of  crow- 
blackbirds  and  (at  my  last  visit)  two  families  of 
English  sparrows. 

This  huge  nest,  planted  firmly  upon  the  very 
top  of  a  tall  oak,  standing  almost  alone  on  the 
[192] 


edge  of  a  vast  salt-marsh,  is  not  the  natural  nest- 
ing-place for  blackbirds  and  sparrows.  This 
marsh -land  is  the  range  of  the  hawks.  They  are 
at  home  here.  The  blackbirds  and  sparrows,  for 
some  reason,  have  broken  away  from  the  inland. 
The  blackbirds  have  nested  here,  to  my  know- 
ledge, for  thirteen  years  ;  the  sparrows  discovered 
the  great  nest  only  a  year  ago. 

The  walls  of  the  nest  are  as  big  around  as  a 
hogshead  and  as  rough  as  the  protruding  ends  of 
corn-stalks,  dead  limbs,  and  small  cord- wood  can 
make  them.  It  is  around  in  the  crevices  of  these 
uneven  walls  that  the  blackbirds  and  sparrows 
lodge  their  nests. 

I  am  by  no  means  certain  that  all  is  harmoni- 
ous in  this  queer  colony.  There  was  no  appear- 
ance of  discord— none  but  the  appearance  of  the 
sparrows.  Neither  am  I  sure  why  these  small 
birds  choose  to  live  thus  with  the  hawks.  They 
are  both  independent  birds,  not  hangers-on  at  all ; 
so  it  cannot  be  the  mere  convenience  of  a  ready- 
made  nesting-site.  That  could  be  had  anywhere  ; 
besides,  naturally,  neither  grackles  nor  sparrows 
would  fly  far  away  into  a  marsh  in  looking  for 
a  place  to  build.  It  cannot  be  that  they  come 
"  [193] 


for  the  bits  of  fish  left  after  the  young  hawks 
have  eaten.  They  are  not  particularly  fond  of 
fish,  and  there  would  not  be  crumbs  enough  to 
make  their  coining  worth  while,  anyway. 

I  believe  the  blackbirds  are  like  certain  strange 
persons  :  they  enjoy  living  in  a  tenement.  There 
are  extraordinary  neighborhood  advantages  in  a 
big,  round  hawk's  nest— fine  chances  for  company 
and  gossip.  The  sparrows  found  the  grackles 
living  here  and  saw  a  fine  chance  to  intrude. 

But  this  is  not  generous  nor  even  fair.  Is  it 
not  just  as  easy  and  as  safe  to  put  it  all  on  the 
score  of  friendly  interest  and  good-fellowship? 
I  can  believe  that  the  hawks  enjoy  the  cheerful 
clatter  of  the  garrulous  crow-blacks  and  the 
small  impertinence  of  the  sparrows.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  crow-blacks  and  sparrows  feel  a 
certain  protection  in  the  presence  of  the  hawks, 
and  may,  who  knows,  appreciate  the  friendship 
of  such  high  and  mighty  folk. 

Quite  as  interesting  and  unusual  a  show  of 
friendship,  at  least  of  friendliness,  was  seen  re- 
cently by  bird-lovers  on  a  telephone-pole  in  a 
thickly  settled  town  not  far  from  Boston. 

There  were  poles  in  plenty  sticking  up  all 
[194] 


over  the  surrounding  country ;  but  passing  by 
all  of  these,  a  pair  of  flickers,  a  pair  of  chick- 
adees, and  a  pair  of  red-headed  woodpeckers 
{erythrocephalus}  selected  the  same  pole  for 
their  nests,  prepared  their  holes,  hatched  and 
brought  up  their  large,  noisy  families  together, 
without  a  single  quarrel  so  far  as  the  curious 
public  knew.  And  they  did  all  this  with  per- 
sons coming  from  far  and  near  to  stare  at  them 
through  opera-glasses,  for  the  red-headed  wood- 
peckers were  the  only  pair  with  such  heads  re- 
ported that  season  anywhere  around. 

Some  day  the  wolf  shall  dwell  with  the  lamb, 
which,  of  course,  is  much  more  of  a  wonder  than 
the  kingbird's  dwelling  peaceably  with  the  or- 
chard-oriole. But  this,  in  its  way,  is  no  mean 
wonder. 

I  was  rowing  up  a  little  creek  one  day  when 
I  found  a  kingbird's  nest  in  the  low,  drooping 
branch  of  a  red  maple,  swinging  within  three 
feet  of  the  water.  The  moment  the  kingbirds 
saw  me  back  water  they  knew  I  had  discovered 
their  nest,  and  across  the  creek  they  started  on 
the  four  maddest  wings.  How  they  quivered ! 
The  kingbirds  never  seem  exactly  placid ;  but 
[195] 


let  Mrs.  Kingbird  catch  you  fooling  around  her 
nest! 

However,  it  was  here  in  the  maple  that  day 
that  I  had  a  fresh  glimpse  into  the  heart  of  this 
little-loved  bird.  He  is  not  so  quarrelsome  and 
ill-natured  under  his  feathers  as  he  appears.  He 
is  splintery,  but  neighborly  withal. 

While  I  was  holding  to  his  nest-bough,  the 
skiff  swung  in  and  wedged  its  nose  between  the 
forks  of  another  limb  that  dragged  the  water. 
Turning  to  get  free,  I  put  my  hand  fairly  upon  a 
second  nest— the  dainty  cradle  of  an  orchard- 
oriole.  The  two  nests  were  not  five  feet  apart. 

Kingbird  and  oriole  friendly?  It  is  hard  to 
imagine  two  birds  with  respectable  bird  ways  so 
ill  assorted  for  neighbors  as  these  two.  Rather 
is  it  hard  to  think  of  kingbirds  living  in  peace 
anywhere  or  with  anybody. 

The  difference  in  the  natures  of  the  two  birds 
was  strikingly  exhibited  in  the  style  of  these 
two  nests.  The  kingbird  has  n't  a  particle  of 
imagination,  not  an  atom  of  the  artistic  in  his 
soul.  His  shape,  dress,  and  voice  declare  it.  He 
is  hard-headed,  straightforward,  and  serious, 
somewhat  overbearing,  perhaps,  and  testy,  but 
[196] 


businesslike  and  refined  in  all  his  tastes.  His 
nest  is  himself  over  again :  strong,  plain,  ade- 
quate, but,  like  its  builder,  refined.  Contrast 
the  oriole's.  Eomance,  poetry,  and  that  inde- 
scribable touch— the  light,  easy,  negligent  touch 
of  the  artist — in  every  line  of  it.  Why,  the 
thing  was  actually  woven  of  new-mown  hay — 
as  if  one  should  build  his  house  of  sandal  wood— 
with  all  the  scent  of  the  hay-field  about  it.  I 
put  my  nose  near  and  took  a  deep,  delicious 
breath. 

The  birds  had  selected  and  cut  the  grass 
themselves  and  worked  it  in  while  green.  Some 
of  it  was  still  uncured,  still  soft  and  sweet  with 
sap.  One  side,  exposed  to  the  sun  through  a 
leaf  rift,  had  gone  a  golden  yellow ;  but  the 
other  side,  deeply  shaded  the  day  through,  was 
yet  green  and  making  more  slowly  under  the 
leaves.  And  this  nest  was  woven,  not  built  up 
like  the  kingbird's ;  it  was  hung,  not  saddled 
upon  the  limb— suspended  from  the  slenderest 
of  forks,  so  that  every  little  breeze  would  rock 
it.  And  so  loosely  woven,  so  deftly,  slightly 
tied! 

There  must  have  been  a  friendly  understand- 
[197] 


ing  between  the  two  birds.  If  kingbird  were 
as  ugly  a  neighbor  as  some  that  my  friends  have 
heard  of,  .the  oriole  could  not  have  had  the 
heart  to  perch  upon  that  maple's  top— the  com- 
mon front  step  to  their  double  house— and  sing 
down  into  his  own  and  the  kingbird's  home. 
Yet,  up  there  that  moment  he  sat,  utterly  care- 
free, abandoned  to  happiness,  the  great  maple- 
tree  adrip  with  his  limpid,  liquid  song. 

A  state  of  things  farther  removed  from  a 
chronic  neighborhood  quarrel,  more  like  genu- 
ine friendship,  it  would  be  hard  anywhere  to 
find.  One  may  certainly  be  allowed  to  believe 
in  a  friendly  agreement  between  the  two  birds, 
to  wit :  that  oriole  provide  music  for  the  two 
families,  while  kingbird  guard  the  premises. 
Whether  the  agreement  was  formally  come  to 
or  not  (and  of  course  it  was  not),  this  is  exactly 
what  was  doing,  the  fighting  for  both  being  at- 
tended to  by  the  cantankerous  kingbird,  and 
the  oriole  furnishing  all  the  song. 


[198] 


"THE   LONGEST   WAY   ROUND" 


"THE    LONGEST  WAY   ROUND" 

TJIROSTY  weather  and  ripe  persimmons  had 
-L  come,  with  Thanksgiving  close  at  hand. 
Uncle  Jethro  and  I  were  husking  corn. 

"What  had  you  rather  have  for  Thanksgiv- 
ing, Uncle  Jeth,"  I  asked,  "one  of  Horner's  big 
bronze  gobblers  or  a  nice  young  gander?" 

The  old  darky  paused,  dropped  his  ear  of 
corn  from  a  paralyzed  hand,  and  looked  me  over 
with  annihilating  scorn. 

"Gobbler  !  gander  !  Dat— dat  w'at  I  calls  de 
las'  ac'.  Dat  am  de  egregiousest  misappreciation 
of  circumstance  an'  de  proprieties  w'at  's  oc- 
curred to  my  personal  cognition,  sure  !  Dar  am 
[201] 


jes  one  time  \n  de  yhear  fer  no  udder  kin'  of 
meat  but  possum,  an'  dat  time,  boy,  am  de  time 
ter  gib  thanks." 

Though  not  exactly  sure  of  the  precise  mean- 
ing of  Uncle  Jethro's  words,  I  was  duly  apolo- 
getic, and  instant  with  my  promise  to  bring 
forth  a  big,  fat  possum  for  his  Thanksgiving 
dinner. 

We  had  finished  the  shock  and  I  had  gone 
ahead,  broken  the  binding  on  the  next  one  and 
pushed  it  over,  while  Uncle  Jethro  was  kicking 
the  stray  ears  into  the  pile. 

As  the  stalks  tumbled  I  looked  down  to  see 
the  mice  run,  when,  to  my  astonishment,  I  saw, 
curled  up  in  a  bed  of  corn -blades,  an  enormous 
possum.  He  had  taken  the  shock  of  stalks  for 
his  winter  home,  and  made  his  nest  at  its  very 
center,  snug  and  warm  and  weather-proof. 

He  half  uncurled,  yawned,  and  blinked  as  the 
glaring  light  burst  upon  him,  but  showed  no 
sign  of  surprise  nor  evinced  the  least  intention 
of  getting  up.  It  was  very  inconvenient,  dis- 
tressing indeed,  to  have  one's  house  pulled  down 
like  this.  Would  n't  I  be  gentleman  enough  to 
spare  him  his  bed! 

[202] 


"Uncle  Jeth  ! "  I  called,  as  calmly  as  I  knew 
how.  "Uncle  Jeth,  would  you  mind  if  I  brought 
you  that  possum  to-day?" 

"Mind,  chil',  mind?"  he  chuckled.  "OP 
Jethro  shuttin'  his  doo'  on  Br'er  Possum?  Fetch 
him  up,  honey,  fetch  him  up.  Jethro  gwine 
take  him  in." 

"Well,  how  will  this  one  do?"  I  exclaimed, 
catching  the  possum  with  a  quick  grab  by  the 
tail  and  lifting  him  up  fairly  under  the  old  man's 
nose. 

"De  golden  chariot  am  a-comin'  ! "  gasped 
Uncle  Jethro,  jumping  back,  his  unbelieving 
eyes  bulging  half  out  of  his  head.  "Wat  dat, 
yo'  chil',  yo'  !  Possum !  De  quails  an'  de 
manna  an'  de  water  in  de  rock  !  Yo'  's  de  beat- 
enes',  yo'  is.  Yo'  's  done  been  talkiii'  wid  ol' 
Miss  Owl  las'  night,  dat  w'at  yo'  has." 

But  I  stoutly  denied  this  imputation.  I  had 
not  been  hunting  the  night  before  and  hidden 
the  possum  here  in  order  to  surprise  Uncle 
Jethro,  as  he  saw  immediately  on  examining 
the  creature's  bed. 

The  great  fat  fellow  had  slept  in  that  bed 
more  than  one  night,  more  than  a  month  of 
[  203  ] 


nights,  in  all  probability.  And  here  the  shock 
stood  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  house,  and 
directly  along  our  beaten  path  to  the  woods. 
Fifty  times,  at  least,  the  dog  had  passed  this 
shock,  had  run  round  it,  had  sniffed  at  it,  doubt- 
less, and  gone  on,  while  the  possum  slept  peace- 
fully inside. 

How? 

Who  knows  the  hows  of  possum  ways?  All 
that  Uncle  Jethro  himself  is  sure  of  with  re- 
gard to  possum  is  that  by  Thanksgiving-time 
there  is  nothing  in  the  market  to  approach  it 
for  a  roast.  You  can  trust  Uncle  Jethro's  ob- 
servations on  this  point. 

But  how  did  the  possum  succeed  in  establishing 
himself  along  the  path  and  so  near  the  house, 
where,  except  for  this  accident  to  his  shock, 
which  the  longest-headed  possum  could  not  have 
foreseen,  he  might  have  lived  indefinitely? 
How  ?  In  this  way,  partly  :  This  corn-shock  that 
he  had  chosen  was  peculiar.  Unlike  any  other 
in  the  field,  it  stood  close  along  an  old  worm- 
fence  and  in  such  a  position  that  one  of  the  long 
cross-stakes  used  for  a  post  slanted  out  over  its 
top. 

[204] 


Now  a  rabbit  cannot  walk  the  top  rail  of  a 
fence,  nor  climb  out  to  the  tip  of  a  tall  slanting 
pole.  But  a  possum  can.  A  rabbit  would  have 
to  creep  under  the  shock  from  the  bottom,  going 
in  on  the  ground.  A  possum,  however,  would 
not  have  to  do  that  way.  He  could  walk  the 
fence,  climb  out  on  the  slanting  stake,  drop  to 
the  top  of  the  shock,  and  go  straight  down 
through  the  middle. 

And  that  is  exactly  what  this  possum  did.  He 
came  out  the  way  he  went  in,  too,  never  leaving 
his  track  on  the  ground  near  the  nest,  nor  his 
scent  where  a  dog  could  find  it.  He  may  not 
have  known  that  dogs  cannot  walk  fences  and 
climb  poles.  Perhaps  not.  But  he  knew  two 
things,  stupid  as  he  looked  :  one  was  that  a  good 
and  sure  road  home  lay  atop  the  rail  fence  ;  the 
other,  that  a  pretty  safe  way  to  hang  out  his 
latch-string  was  through  the  chimney. 

Yet  perhaps  this  was  only  a  cunning  blunder, 
and  not  real  woods- wisdom  at  all ;  for  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  in  the  mentality  of  so  much 
fat  and  a  chronic  smile.  One  is  not  surprised  at 
a  coon's  taking  "the  longest  way  round" — the 
way  of  the  top  rail ;  but  that  a  sleepy,  logy 
[205] 


possum  should  discover  it  to  be  "the  surest  way 
home  "  comes  as  a  real  surprise. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  it  was  a  blunder.  He 
happened  to  walk  the  fence,  climb  the  stake,  and 
tumble  off  into  a  soft  spot.  And  if  once,  why 
not  again  !  For  let  a  notion  get  into  a  possum's 
head,  and  there  it  will  stick.  You  can't  get  it 
out,  nor  get  another  one  in  ;  there  is  n't  room. 

As  an  illustration  take  the  case  of  "Pinky,"  a 
little  possum  we  once  possessed,  who  had  a  notion 
that  he  wanted  to  be  domesticated. 

Most  wild  animals  stoutly  resist  all  of  our  well- 
intentioned  efforts  to  bring  them  up  in  dooryard 
ways,  and  take  to  the  woods  again  at  the  first 
opportunity.  I  have  tried  one  after  another,  but 
every  one  of  them  sooner  or  later  has  escaped  to 
the  wilds  —  every  one  but  Pinky.  He  refused 
to  stay  in  the  woods  even  when  taken  back  there, 
because,  forsooth,  into  the  little  think-hole  in  his 
head  had  got  stuck  the  notion  that  he  wanted  to 
be  a  domesticated  possum,  and  that  notion  could 
not  be  budged. 

Pinky  was  one  of  a  family  of  nine  that  I  caught 
several  springs  ago  and  carried  home.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  weeks  eight  of  them  were  adopted 
[206] 


by  admiring  friends  ;  but  Pinky,  because  lie  was 
the  runt  and  looked  very  sorry  and  forlorn,  was 
not  chosen.  He  was  left  with  me.  I  kept  him, — 
his  mother  had  choked  to  death  on  a  fish-bone, — 
and  fed  him.  milk  until  he  caught  up  to  the  size 
of  the  biggest  mother-fed  possum  of  his  age  in 
the  woods.  Then  I  took  him  down  to  the  old 
stump  in  the  brier-patch  where  he  was  born,  and 
left  him  to  shift  for  himself. 

Being  thrown  into  a  brier-patch  was  exactly 
what  tickled  Br'er  Kabbit  half  to  death ;  and 
any  one  would  have  supposed  that  being  put 
gently  down  in  his  home  brier-patch  would  have 
tickled  this  little  possum  even  more. 

Not  he  !  I  went  home  and  forgot  him.  But 
the  next  morning,  when  breakfast  was  preparing, 
whom  should  we  see  but  Pinky,  curled  up  in  the 
feather  cushion  of  the  kitchen  settee,  sound 
asleep. 

He  had  found  his  way  back  during  the  night, 
had  climbed  in  through  the  trough  of  the  pump- 
box,  and  had  gone  to  sleep  like  the  rest  of  the 
family.  He  gaped  and  grinned  and  looked  about 
him  when  awakened,  altogether  at  home,  and 
really  surprised  that  morning  had  come  so  soon. 
[207] 


He  got  down  and  took  his  saucer  of  milk  under 
the  stove  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened. 

"We  had  had  a  good  many  possums,  crows, 
lizards,  and  the  like  ;  so,  in  spite  of  this  winsome 
show  of  confidence  and  affection,  Pinky  was 
borne  away  once  more  to  the  briers. 

That  night  he  did  not  creep  in  by  the  pump- 
box  trough.  Nothing  was  seen  of  him,  and  he 
passed  quickly  out  of  our  minds.  But  he  still 
kept  his  notion.  Two  or  three  days  after  this, 
as  I  was  crossing  the  back  yard,  I  stopped  to  pick 
up  a  large  calabash-gourd  that  I  had  left  on  the 
woodpile.  I  had  cut  a  round  hole  in  the  gourd 
somewhat  larger  than  a  silver  dollar,  intending  to 
fasten  the  thing  up  for  the  bluebirds  to  nest  in. 

It  ought  to  have  been  as  light  as  so  much  air, 
almost,  but  instead  it  was  heavy— the  children 
had  filled  it  with  sand,  no  doubt.  I  turned  it 
over  and  looked  into  the  hole,  and  lo  !  not  sand, 
but  Pinky  ! 

The  notion  had  brought  him  back  again. 
How  he  ever  managed  to  squeeze  through  the 
opening,  I  don't  know  ;  but  there  he  was,  sleep- 
ing away  as  soundly  as  ever. 

He  no  longer  possessed  the  notion  ;  the  notion 
[208] 


possessed  him.  And  what  happened  finally? 
A  sad  thing,  of  course.  A  creature  with  such  a 
head  on  his  shoulders  could  not  come  to  a  fine 
and  happy  end. 

I  took  Pinky  back  to  the  woods  the  third 
time,  and  the  third  time  he  returned,  but  blun- 
dered into  a  neighbor's  yard,  and— and  a  little 
later  he  was  drawn  up  in  a  bucket  of  water  from 
the  bottom  of  that  neighbor's  well,  still  asleep, 
only — they  could  not  wake  him  up. 

It  is  not  easy  to  reconcile  such  wit  as  this 
with  the  cunning  of  the  fence-rail  road  and  the 
chimney  entrance.  Yet  this  one  of  the  corn- 
shock  is  not  the  only  possum  I  have  known  to 
take  a  roundabout  way  home  for  the  sake  of 
hiding  his  trail.  One  autumn  I  was  fooled  over 
and  over, — we  were  fooled,  the  dog  and  I, — 
until  snow  fell  and  the  whole  trick  was  written 
out  in  signs  that  our  stumbling  wits  had  to 
understand. 

Around  the  rim  of  the  steep  wooded  hillsides 
circling  Lupton's  Pond  runs  a  rail  fence,  along 
which  grow  a  number  of  old  chestnut-oak  trees 
with  clusters  of  great  stems  from  single  spread- 
ing stumps  that  are  particularly  gone  to  holes. 
14  '  [209] 


Ordinarily,  if  one  wanted  a  possum,  about  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  climb  the  hill,  prod  around 
in  the  holes  until  he  felt  something  soft  that 
hissed,  then  reach  in  and  pull  the  possum  out. 

This  fall  they  had  all  been  pulled  out.  One 
day  five  came  forth  from  a  single  stump,  which 
seemed  to  exhaust  the  hillside's  crop  for  that 
year,  so  that  I  quite  ceased  looking  into  the 
stumps  for  more. 

Several  times  the  dog  had  started  a  trail  in 
the  woods  at  the  head  of  the  pond,  gone  up  the 
hill  to  the  crest,  and  halted,  beating  about, 
fooled.  What  was  it?  At  first  I  took  it  to  be 
a  coon ;  for  there  is  no  other  creature  in  our 
woods  so  thoughtful  of  his  steps.  One  whose 
range  is  infested  with  dogs  develops  astonishing 
care  and  cunning. 

An  old  coon  in  such  a  country  will  never  go 
straight  home,  nor  take  a  beaten  path.  Out  on 
the  boundaries  of  his  range  he  trots  along  with- 
out minding  how  he  steps.  The  dogs  may  have 
fun  with  his  trail  here.  He  intends  only  that  they 
shall  not  follow  him  clear  home,  that  they  shall 
not  find  his  home-tree,  nor  even  the  vicinity  of  it. 

So,  as  he  enters  his  own  neighborhood  swamp 
[210] 


his  movements  change.  The  dogs  may  be  hard 
after  him  or  not.  If  not  close  behind,  he  knows 
by  long  experience  that  they  may  be  expected, 
and  never  so  far  forgets  his  precious  skin  as  to 
leave  a  clue  pointing  toward  home. 

Instead  he  trots  along  a  boundary  fence,  or 
up  the  swamp  stream,  leaping  all  the  crossing 
logs,  and  coming  out,  likely,  on  the  bank  away 
from  the  nest-tree.  Farther  down  he  jumps 
the  stream,  runs  hard  toward  a  big  gum,  and 
from  a  dozen  feet  away  takes  a  flying  leap, 
catching  the  trunk  up  just  out  of  reach  of  the 
keen-nosed  dogs.  On  up  he  goes  a  little  and 
leaps  again,  touching  the  ground  ten  feet  out, 
thus  leaving  a  gap,  a  blank,  of  twenty  or  more 
feet  in  his  trail. 

The  stream  or  fence  has  puzzled  the  dogs  ;  but 
now  they  begin  to  worry.  They  circle  and 
finally  pick  up  the  scent  beyond  the  first  gap, 
only  to  run  instantly  into  a  greater  blank,  one 
that  the  widest  circling  does  not  cross.  For  the 
coon  has  taken  to  another  tree  ;  out  on  the  limbs 
of  this  to  still  another,  and  on,  like  a  squirrel, 
from  tree  to  tree  for  perhaps  a  hundred  yards,  on, 
it  may  be,  to  his  own  high  hollow. 
[211] 


It  was  such  a  broken  trail  that  I  thought  the 
dog  must  be  running.  She  could  get  no  farther 
than  the  top  of  the  slope.  Over  the  fence,  under 
it,  and  out  far  and  wide  she  would  go,  but  never 
a  sniff  of  the  lost  scent. 

Then  came  a  light  snow,  and  on  the  white 
page  of  the  hillside  in  his  own  hand  was  written 
the  story  of  a  large  possum,  who  had  been  along 
the  stream  at  the  head  of  the  pond,  had  gone 
up  the  hill  to  a  fallen  pine,  out  along  this  by 
way  of  the  thick  top  to  the  fence-post,  and  down 
the  rails. 

The  writing  was  plain  in  the  sticky  snow,  and 
so  was  the  mystery  of  the  broken  trail.  I  hur- 
ried along  the  fence  and  saw  ahead  that  a  sag- 
ging post  leaned  in  against  one  of  the  large 
chestnut-oaks.  Instinctively  I  knew  that  my 
possum  was  in  that  tree. 

Sure  enough,  the  snow  was  brushed  from  the 
post ;  there  were  signs  on  the  trunk,  and  down 
between  the  twin  boles  was  the  hole,  smooth, 
clean,  and  possumy.  The  crafty  old  fellow  had 
squeezed  hard  to  get  in  and  had  left  a  hair  or 
two  on  the  rim  of  his  entrance. 

[212] 


"ONE     FLEW     EAST     AND    ONE     FLEW 
WEST  " 


EARLY  dusk  of  a  cold  March  night  was  fall- 
ing. The  two  red  maples  in  the  little 
alder  swale  beyond  the  pasture  stood  penciled 
on  the  gray  sky.  A  robin  had  been  singing  ;  but 
now  the  deep  winter  hush  had  crept  back  over 
the  fields. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  hiss  and  winnow  of 
wings  close  above  my  head.  I  dodged.  Past 
me,  lined  for  the  swale,  with  an  erratic,  rotary 
flight  as  if  fired  from  a  rifle,  sped  a  bird. 

"He's  back!"  I  exclaimed.     "He  escaped!" 
And  through  my  cold,  rain-soaked  world  of  wood 
[215] 


and  field  and  swale  shot  a  new,  wild  thrill  of 
life.  It  was  the  return  of  a  woodcock  that  had 
nested  for  several  seasons  along  a  slender,  alder- 
hidden  stream  about  half  a  mile  from  my  home. 

I  was  not  expecting  him  back  this  spring. 
When  the  gunning  season  opened  the  previous 
July,  at  least  a  score  of  men  knew  that  a  single 
pair  of  woodcocks  had  nested  in  the  swale  ;  and 
up  and  down,  over  and  over,  one  after  another 
they  beat  it,  beat  it  by  clump,  by  tussock,  by 
square  foot  for  the  birds,  killing  five.  Four  of 
these  were  the  young  of  that  summer ;  the  fifth 
was  one  of  the  parents. 

The  swale  turned  brown,  and  soon  lay  silent 
and  bleak.  I  could  not  pass  it  during  the  win- 
ter without  a  feeling  akin  to  anger.  It  was  a 
narrow  strip,  barely  fifty  feet  across  at  its 
widest,  flanked  by  a  woode.d  hillside  and  by 
wide,  tilled  fields.  But  it  was  all  the  swamp, 
all  the  meadow  I  had ;  and  that  this  should  be 
robbed  of  its  life,  that  all  my  out-of-doors  within 
vision  range  should  never  again  hold  a  wood- 
cock's nest,  was  more  than  a  grief. 

I  had  been  robbed.  Twenty  men  against  six 
woodcocks !  And  they  had  been  eager  to  kill 
[216] 


the  last  pair  breeding  in  this  last  shrinking 
covert. 

They  had  been  eager — but  one  of  the  pair,  by 
some  miracle,  had  escaped.  There  he  went 
humming  through  the  dusk,  and  all  my  world 
was  changed. 

He  would  induce  some  young,  unmated  female 
on  her  way  north  to  remain  with  him,  and  there 
would  yet  be  a  home  in  the  swale.  At  first  I 
feared  lest  this  one  should  prove  to  be  a  female 
that  would  be  lured  away  ;  if  not,  then  that  he 
might  be  a  migrant  himself,  who  would  halt 
only  to  feed  that  night.  But  the  next  day  I 
found  him  along  the  stream,  and  I  knew  by 
the  way  he  got  to  cover  that  he  was  on  familiar 
ground  and  had  come  to  stay. 

What  a  queer,  comical-looking  bird  he  is  !  If 
nature  ever  had  any  feeble-minded  offspring, 
you  would  surely  put  Woodcock  down  for  one. 
But  he  has  a  full  share  of  bird  sense.  The 
matter  with  him  is  partly  his  nocturnal  habits. 
Night  does  not  seem  the  birds'  natural  wake- 
time,  and  those  that  turn  it  into  day  invariably 
take  on  some  odd,  almost  abnormal  appearance 
— the  owl  assumes  his  ridiculous  show  of  wis- 
[217] 


dom,  and   the  woodcock  wears  a  vacuous  ex- 
pression that-  is  positively  imbecile. 

Yet  it  is  neither  imbecility  nor  wisdom,  but 
merely  beaks  and  eyes.  With  eyes  to  the  front 
and  a  beak  made  for  spectacles,  the  owl  looks 
very  professorial.  The  woodcock's  eyes  are 
at  the  rear  and  in  the  top  of  his  head.  If  he 
wore  glasses,  they  would  rest  011  the  back  of  his 
neck. 

This  position  for  the  bird's  eyes,  however,  is 
a  convenient  one.  He  literally  needs  to  see  out 
of  the  top  of  his  head  a  part  of  the  time.  His 
only  food  is  angleworms,  for  the  catching  of 
which  nature  provides  him  a  three-inch  probe 
of  a  bill.  Then,  for  his  safety  and  comfort  when 
sounding  for  the  worms,  in  order  to  keep  his 
eyes  out  of  the  mire,  she  puts  them  up  on  the 
top  of  his  head,  just  as  a  clam-digger  rolls  up 
his  sleeves  when  at  his  task  in  the  mud. 

Nature  is  preeminently  practical,  even  at  the 
cost  of  appearance,  as  the  eyes  of  the  woodcock 
attest.  And  she  has  done  another  practical 
thing  for  this  freak  child  which  adds  to  his 
oddity  and  interest— this  time  in  connection 
with  his  beak. 

[218] 


In  the  bare,  damp  spots  among  the  alders  and 
along  the  edge  of  the  corn-field,  soon  after 
Woodcock  arrived,  I  found  his  borings— groups 
of  a  dozen  or  more  holes  where,  in  hunting 
worms,  he  had  plunged  his  bill  into  the  earth  up 
to  his  eyes  (up  to  the  place  where  his  eyes 
would  normally  have  been).  I  had  always  won- 
dered how  the  bird,  when  he  felt  a  worm,  could 
open  his  bill  with  it  forced  to  the  hilt  in  stiff,  solid 
earth,  for  surely  he  does  not  thrust  it  down 
already  open.  Year  after  year  I  kept  on  won- 
dering instead  of  investigating,  until  one  day  a 
man  showed  me  that  there  was  a  curious  flexible 
tip  to  the  upper  mandible  which  the  bird  could 
move  independently  of  the  rest  of  the  beak,  and 
thus  grasp  the  luckless  worm,  though  deep  in 
the  mud. 

This  is  distinction  enough  for  one  beak,  and 
we  ought  not  to  expect  of  it  a  song.  Nor  do 
we.  One  cannot  think  of  a  hooked  beak  or  a 
flat  beak  or  a  long  beak  emitting  music.  It  is 
not  for  his  singing  that  I  should  miss  Woodcock 
in  the  swale,  but  for  his  dancing.  No  festival 
fires  among  the  tepees,  no  barbecue  among  the 
cabins,  ever  saw  wilder,  more  frenzied  dancing 
[219] 


than  the  alders  witness  night  after  night  in  early 
spring. 

And  if  the  woodcock  does  not  sing,  he  harps 
his  own  accompaniment— a  weird  wing  music, 
half  seolian,  that  sets  you  dancing,  too,  as  no 
other  bird  music  you  ever  heard.  . 

It  is  dusk  in  the  swale.  I  am  sitting  on  the 
root  of  one  of  the  red  maples,  now  in  misty 
garnet  bloom.  A  wavering  line  of  piping  hylas 
marks  the  course  of  the  stream.  Scattered  bird- 
calls come  from  the  covert,  and  out  of  the  deep- 
ening blue  overhead  falls  a  flock  of  notes,  the 
chinks  of  migrants  winging  north. 

Presently,  in  the  grassy  level  across  the  stream, 
sounds  a  clear  peent !  peent !  peent !  I  listen, 
half  rising.  Peent!  peent!  peent!  slow  and 
regular;  then,  bursting  from  cover  with  the 
rush  of  a  rocket,  spins  the  woodcock.  Out  against 
the  gray  horizon  he  sweeps,  and  round  on  the 
first  turn  of  his  soaring  spiral.  The  hum  of  his 
wings  fills  the  swale.  Round  and  round,  swifter 
and  swifter,  the  hum  rising  shrill  as  he  mounts 
two  hundred — three  hundred — four  hundred  feet 
into  the  dusky  sky,  and  hangs — hangs  a  whirling 
blur  on  the  blue,  and  drops— headlong,  with  a 
[220] 


pitching,  zigzag  flight  and  the  velocity  of  a 
bullet,  whistling,  as  he  falls,  a  low,  pearly  trill  of 
love  that  smothers  in  the  whir  of  his  alighting 
wings. 

It  is  all  over,  and  I  am  standing,  my  held 
breath  coming  in  gasps.  Then  there  sounds 
again  that  measured,  preparatory  peent  I  peent ! 
and  I  await  the  second  burst,  the  looping  spiral 
flight,  the  drop,  and  the  clear,  low  whistle  of 
love.  And  so  the  dance  goes  on  as  the  darkness 
thickens,  until  only  a  winnow  whirls  shrill 
toward  the  stars,  and  a  sweet,  pearly  whistle 
ripples  down  through  the  gloom. 

While  waiting  there  in  the  twilight  I  saw  the 
last  year's  nest  of  a  wood-thrush  in  the  leafless 
top  of  a  slender  sapling.  I  had  not  heard  Wood- 
thrush  yet  this  spring.  What  if  he  should  not 
return  to  the  strip  of  alder-bottom?  Happily 
there  is  no  immediate  danger.  Yet  I  should 
miss  the  wild  love-dance  of  my  woodcock  almost 
as  much  as  I  should  the  serene  love-song  of  the 
thrush.  I  should  miss  the  personality  of  my 
woodcock  even  more.  He  is  so  elusive,  so  unex- 
pected, so  suggestive  of  bog  and  stream.  There 
is  a  thrill  in  his  break  from  cover  like  the  thrill 
[221] 


one  feels  in  the  strike  and  whirl  of  a  trout. 
Fifty  thrushes  would  fifty  times  sweeten  the 
swale  ;  my  single  pair  of  woodcocks  would  keep 
it  all  wild  and  untamed. 

But  they  are  gone.  Like  all  birds,  the  wood- 
cocks have  many  natural  enemies ;  they  are  one 
of  their  own  worst  enemies  in  building  so  early 
that  snows  and  frosts  destroy  the  eggs,  and  in 
places  where  April  freshets  sweep  them  away. 
Yet  in  spite  of  all  this,  they  would  flourish  were 
it  not  for  the  pot-hunter.  They  could  be  hunted 
during  the  weeks  of  the  fall  migration,  as  the 
New  England  States  allow,  and  still  flourish. 
But  in  New  Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  Delaware, 
Maryland,  and  several  other  States  they  are 
shot  in  July,  almost  before  the  young  are  on  the 
wing.  And  in  the  Southern  States,  excepting 
South  Carolina  and  Alabama,  no  protection  is 
afforded  them  whatever.  Here  from  the  North 
they  congregate  during  the  winter,  and  here  all 
winter  long  they  are  slaughtered  and  shipped 
back  to  the  North  —  to  the  States  that  are  trying 
to  save  them. 

From  everywhere  over  their  wide  range, 
between  the  Atlantic  coast  and  the  line  of  the 
[2221 


Mississippi  Kiver,  the  woodcocks  are  disappear- 
ing. Once  gone,  they  can  hardly  be  restored, 
largely  because  of  their  peculiar  food,  which 
makes  them  migratory,  and  which  cannot  be 
supplied  them  as  grain  can  be  supplied  to  the 
.  quail  and  to  other  game-birds.  The  dangers  of 
their  migrations  and  those  which  beset  their 
nesting-places,  the  fewness  of  their  eggs,  their 
limited  and  easily  hunted  coverts,  are  causes 
which  are  making  rapidly  toward  the  extinction 
of  the  woodcocks,  and  which  would  greatly  add 
to  the  difficulty  of  their  restoration. 

Already  these  noble  birds  have  gone  from  the 
swale.  There  has  been  no  love-dance  over  the 
alders  since  those  of  my  woodcock  many  springs 
ago.  The  trees  have  been  swept  from  the  hill- 
side, the  little  stream  has  shrunken,  and  rush  and 
sedge  are  now  cropped  close  by  the  cattle.  But 
the  birds  were  not  driven  away. 

They  were  shot. 

The  night  that  my  woodcock  whizzed  past  on 
his  spring  return  to  the  swale,  another  bird 
sailed  low  over  the  yard  on  his  way  back  from 
the  swale.  But  his  passing  had  lately  become  a 
nightly  occurrence.  It  was  little  Aix,  a  tame 
[223] 


wood-duck,  belonging  to  the  boys  of  my  nearest 
neighbor. 

Little  Aix,  too,  has  a  story,  which  is  more 
than  his  own  in  particular,  for  it  is  the  story  of 
all  the  wood-ducks,  just  as  the  story  of  the 
woodcock  in  the  swale  is  that  of  the  woodcocks 
everywhere. 

The  wood-ducks  are  vanishing.  Where  a 
score  of  years  ago  they  were  plentiful,  to-day 
they  are  almost  unknown.  And  this  is  largely 
because  of  the  utter  lack  of  protection  in  many 
of  the  States,  but  more  largely  because  only  seven 
of  the  States  and  three  of  the  Canadian  provinces 
close  the  gunning  season  early  enough  in  the 
winter  to  prevent  spring  shooting  on  the  breed- 
ing-grounds. It  is  a  sad  comment  that  we  have 
neither  humaneness  nor  sportsmanlike  spirit 
enough  to  let  the  birds  alone  during  the  mating- 
and  nesting-time. 

Among  all  our  native  game-birds  there  is  no 
other  so  beautiful  as  the  wood-duck,  and  his  sad 
history  is  partly  the  history  of  his  beauty.  In 
rhyme  and  story,  since  story-telling  began,  we 
have  seen  how  perilous  a  gift  beauty  is,  and  now 
we  see  it  even  in  the  woods.  It  is  proving  fatal 
[224] 


to  the  wood-duck.  He  is  so  graceful,  so  beautiful 
in  dress,  that  when  any  other  duck  would  be 
passed  by,  he  is  shot,  in  season  and  out,  just  to 
be  looked  at,  taken  home,  and1  stuffed. 

His  gracious,  confiding  nature  and  his  peculiar 
breeding-haunts  have  also  to  do  with  his  threat- 
ened extinction.  Unlike  the  others  of  his  fam- 
ily (except  in  rare  instances  the  goldeneye),  the 
wood-duck  builds  in  hollow  trees  along  wood- 
land streams  and  small  grassy  ponds.  He  does 
not  seek  the  marshes,  the  open  shore,  or  the  wild, 
far-northern  lakes.  There  is  something  in  the 
society  of  man  that  attracts  him.  Except  in 
the  wide,  treeless  plains  and  in  the  heart  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  he  is  found  scattered  every- 
where between  Mexico  and  Hudson  Bay ;  and 
over  all  this  wide  range  he  breeds,  being  in 
many  localities  the  only  duck  to  remain  through 
the  summer,  and  hence  his  common  name  of 
"  summer  duck."  He  is  naturally  of  a  retiring 
disposition,  but  not  suspicious  or  shy.  Being 
thus  a  woods  bird  and  easily  approached,  he 
falls  a  frequent  and  an  easy  victim. 

He  is  an  interesting  and  peculiar  duck.  He 
eats  acorns  ;  he  is  even  called  the  "  acorn-duck." 
is  [225] 


If  beechnuts  or  chestnuts  are  at  hand,  they  will 
do  as  well  as  acorns.  He  is  fond  of  chicken- 
grapes,  insects,  and  seeds,  too. 

But  what  is  even  more  unusual  is  the  wood- 
duck's  nesting-place.  A  duck's  nest?  Down  in 
the  soft,  damp  moss,  on  a  bit  of  an  island,  or 
hidden  in  the  high  grass  along  some  wild  lake- 
side. Not  so.  The  wood-duck  builds  in  a  hol- 
low tree,  high  and  dry,  and  even  a  long  way 
from  water,  it  may  be. 

The  wood-duck's  young,  of  course,  are  like  all 
ducklings,  with  feet  and  bills  bigger  than  their 
wings.  They  cannot  possibly  remain  in  the  tree- 
hollow  until  old  enough  to  fly.  How  do  they 
get  down  to  the  water?  Usually  they  scramble 
down  head  over  heels  5  sometimes,  it  is  said,  the 
mother  carries  them,  and  if  so,  then  her  solution 
of  this  problem  is  one  of  the  tenderest  passages 
in  all  the  bird  life  of  the  woods.  But  I  have 
never  seen  it.  I  had  hoped  to  see  it  the  spring 
that  little  Aix,  the  tame  wood-duck  of  my 
neighbor,  was  an  egg,— hoped  to  see  the  mother 
carry  each  fat,  downy  duckling  to  the  ground, 
dangling  from  her  beak  by  its  little  flipper, 
then,  with  her  brood  all  safely  landed,  lead  them 
[226] 


together  to  the  water  and  launch  them,— but 
something  happened. 

And  this  happening  concerns  little  Aix  in 
particular,  and  this  is  now  his  story  only. 

I  had  known  little  Aix  since  egghood.  I 
knew  his  parents  before  him.  Where  Silver 
Kun  grows  darkly  silent  and  glides  into  the  open 
pond,  there  still  leans  the  great  maple  stub 
from  the  hollow  top  of  which  little  Aix  and 
eleven  others,  in  their  buff-white  shells,  were 
taken  and  carried  away,  to  my  neighbor's  farm 
to  be  hatched. 

A  sweeter,  wilder  home  never  was  than  this 
along  the  run.  A  world  of  lake  and  swampy 
wood  lies  all  around.  Moss-grown  oaks  and 
maples  shadow  the  cedar-scented  stream  which 
slips  directly  beneath  the  broken  stub  and 
widens  — first  among  a  hundred  tiny  islands, 
then  into  the  quiet,  unbroken  surface  of  the 
pond. 

More  than  once  I  have  pushed  softly  into  the 
run,  led  by  one  of  the  wood-ducks.  Stemming 
ahead  of  the  skiff,  with  a  grace  that  would  make 
me  forget  the  charm  of  his  exquisite  dress,  he 
would  quietly  lead  me  to  the  bend  beyond  the 
[227] 


stub  and  go  ashore,  lost  instantly  in  the  thick 
swamp  tangle. 

Or  I  would  slip  up  and  catch  him  half  asleep, 
when  he  should  have  been  very  wide  awake, 
for  the  one  in  the  stub  could  not  see  out,  and 
he  was  on  guard.  Oe-eek!  Oe-eek!  he  would 
whistle  low  in  alarm.  Then,  recognizing  me,  he 
would  calmly  watch  while  I  edged  past.  Or  I 
would  come  up  and  find  no  one  about.  I  would 
tap.  There  in  the  splintered  top  she  would 
stand,  interested,  but  not  disturbed,  and  with  a 
look  of  trust  in  her  eyes  that  I  never  could 
betray. 

Little  Aix  was  the  only  one  of  the  brood  to 
survive  his  motherless  ducklinghood.  But  he 
throve  in  the  barn  yard,  and  came  through  the 
winter  to  perfect  and  beautiful  maturity.  Up 
to  this  time  he  had  been  content  in  the  barn- 
yard babel,  but  now  a  change  came  over  him. 
Ever  since  the  first  February  wedge  of  wild 
geese  had  passed  honking  through  the  skies,  he 
had  been  restless,  and  had  fallen  more  and  more 
into  the  habit  of  flying  over  to  the  swale,  where 
he  stayed  until  dusk. 

He  was  dressed  for  a  wedding,  but  his  bride 

[228] 


was  not  among  the  big,  overgrown  ducks  of  the 
yard.  He  sought  her  in  the  swale.  Day  after 
day  he  sought  her,  but  she  was  not  there.  He 
waited  for  her  coming.  Others  came.  Line 
after  line  beat  northward,  high  overhead,  and 
he  called;  but  they  fanned  on — they  were 
scooters  or  mallards  or  goosanders. 

Little  Aix  had  not  been  taken  in  the  autumn 
on  the  long  south  journey  by  his  mother,  where 
he  might  have  found  a  bride.  But  then,  his 
mother  did  not  make  the  journey  that  fall. 
The  day  that  her  eggs  were  stolen  she  was  shot 
from  the  top  of  the  stub,  and  her  world— and 
mine — of  lake  and  wood  was  robbed. 

I  still  can  see  her,  if  I  wish,  and  her  mate  beside 
her,  wired  to  a  board  in  a  glass  case.  But  I  had 
rather  push  quietly  into  the  run  and  remember 
them  as  they  were  alive  here. 

The  spot  is  still  wild  and  sweet,  but  the  charm 
of  its  life  is  gone.  I  hoped  little  Aix  would  find 
a  bride  and  bring  her  back  to  the  old  home  tree. 
He  was  my  last  hope.  There  was  no  other 
wood-duck  around  that  I  knew.  Indeed,  his 
parents  in  the  stub  were  the  only  pair  I  had 
ever  known  in  their  own  home.  He,  now,  alone 
[229] 


of  his  beautiful  kind,  was  left  to  me ;  and  he 
had  no  mate. 

Day  after  day  he  waited  for  her  in  the  swale  ; 
night  after  night  he  returned.  Then  came  a 
night  when  he  did  not  return.  Morning  came 
and  another  night. 

Anxiously  I  pulled  up  the  lake  and  drew 
softly  into  the  run.  There  stood  the  old  stub. 
Had  little  Aix  found  his  bride  and  brought  her 
home1? 

I  caught  a  bit  of  bush  by  the  bank  and 
waited.  Then,  drawing  near,  I  tapped  gently. 
No,  he  had  not  come  yet. 

And  that,  too,  was  many  springs  ago. 

The  old  maple  stub  still  leans  out  over  the 
run ;  and  still,  whenever  I  can,  I  push  quietly 
in  among  the  shadows  and  remember— for  little 
Aix,  if  he  found  a  mate,  never  brought  her  back 
to  the  old  home  tree. 


[230] 


CHICKAEEE 


CHICKAREE 

'  /"YLTT,  you  rascal !  You  arrant  thief ! "  I  heard 
V^  some  one  shout  in  a  high-pitched,  feminine 
voice,  and  hurrying  through  the  lilac  hedge,  I 
saw  my  hostess  hurl  an  ear  of  corn  into  a  pine- 
tree  that  overhung  the  smoke-house.  Her  face 
was  burning  with  amazement  and  wrath. 

"Think  of  it!"  she  cried.  "I  have  fed  and 
petted  those  red  squirrels,  I  don't  know  how 
long,  and  there  goes  one  of  them  with  a  young 
phcebe-bird  in  his  mouth.  Years  and  years 
I  've  tried  to  lure  the  birds  back  to  build  in  the 
yard  as  they  used  to.  I  had  banished  every  cat, 
killed  every  snake,  and  bribed  every  boy  in  the 
neighborhood.  They  would  not  come  for  all 
[233] 


that.  I  could  n't  understand.  But  look  at  that ! 
The  Judas ! " 

Thus,  more  and  more  is  Chickaree's  true  char- 
acter being  discovered.  My  hostess  had  heard 
dark  stories  of  Chickaree,  but  she  had  scouted 
them.  "Why,  he  's  a  squirrel,  not  a  monster  ! " 
she  had  said.  I  had  said  that,  too ;  and  I  was 
unbelieving  until  I  caught  him  deliberately  kill- 
ing a  brood  of  young  robins. 

It  is  because  he  appears  to  be  a  squirrel  that 
we  are  so  unwilling  to  think  him  evil.  What 
form  in  all  the  world,  besides  the  dove's,  is  more 
suggestive  of  sweet  innocence  than  the  squirrel's? 
Yet  here  •  is  this  red-coated,  red-handed  little 
wretch,  having  the  form  of  godliness,  but  all 
scarlet  within.  The  revelation  of  his  true  in- 
wardness is  a  real  pain,  a  loss  of  so  much  faith 
in  the  faithful  out-of-doors.  This  squirrel  has 
been  masking  among  us  in  sheep's  clothing.  The 
wolf !  Out  with  him  !  Who  knows  what  murder 
he  has  not  done  ?  what  he  is  capable  of  doing  ? 

Where  do  you  get  your  unholy  and  horrible 

craving,    Chickaree?      Is    there    weasel    blood 

mingled  with  the  squirrel  in  your  veins?     You 

[234] 


are  depraved  past  belief— seven  times  worse 
than  the  weasel,  for  his  blood-thirst  is  natural. 
The  black-snake  and  turkey-buzzard  are  almost 
moral  compared  with  you.  You  are  everything 
wicked  ;  you  have  earned  your  evil  reputation  ; 
you  deserve  to  be  shot. 

Perhaps  you  do,  though  I  am  not  just  sure ; 
for  it  is  very  hard  to  say  exactly  what  justice  is. 
We,  your  judges,  what  virtue  have  we  more  than 
you,  Chickaree?  Is  our  blood-thirst  natural? 
are  we  kin  to  the  weasel?  We  eat  birds,  young 
birds  sometimes  ;  we  even  eat  you. 

No,  Chickaree,  you  are  no  worse  than  the  rest 
of  us.  You  are  bad  enough,  so  bad  that  you 
and  your  tribe  will  have  to  be  exterminated,  I 
fear,  because  we  righteous  judges  must  needs 
doom  somebody  for  all  this  mischief  that  we  and 
our  cats  commit.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  wish 
you  would  repent  and  eat  only  nuts  and  pine- 
buds,  as  befits  an  orthodox  squirrel. 

I  am  convinced  that  while  we  may  not  over- 
estimate the  havoc  of  the  red  squirrels  among 
the  birds,  we  greatly  underestimate  that  of  the 
cats.  Eeduce  the  number  of  cats  ;  stop  shooting 
[235] 


the  birds,  and  help  them  with  their  nesting, 
and  the  red  squirrels,  hawks,  and  weasels  will 
only  serve,  as  it  seems  they  must  have  been  in- 
tended to  serve,  to  maintain  a  proper  balance 
in  the  wild  life  out-of-doors. 

For,  after  all,  we  do  not  want  to  lose  any 
creature  from  the  few  still  left  in  our  fields  and 
woods.  The  passing  of  the  red  squirrel  would 
be  just  as  real  a  loss,  and,  in  a  way,  as  great  a 
loss,  as  the  extinction  of  the  redbird.  I  care  to 
hear  him  bluster  in  the  pines.  It  is  as  foolish  to 
ask  which  of  the  two  I  had  rather  lose,  red 
squirrel  from  the  woods,  or  redbird  from  the 
swale,  as  to  ask  which  of  my  two  children  I  had 
rather  give  up,  the  three-year-old  who  can 
whistle,  or  the  one-year-old  who  can  only  jabber. 

Chickaree  has  a  wider  acquaintance  among 
us  humans  than  any  other  wild  fellow  in  fur  ; 
and  more  friends,  too,  despite  the  multiplying 
of  those  who  know  his  real  nature.  He  has 
friends  because  he  has  earned  them.  Who  ever 
saw  a  chickaree,  if  he  were  given  the  slightest 
chance  to  be  friendly,  that  was  bashful,  squeam- 
ish, or  unsociable"? 

He  spills  over  with  loud  talk  and  conceit,  but 
[236] 


he  never  fails  to  be  interesting.  It  is  partly 
because  he  is  so  frankly  interested  in  one's 
affairs  that  he  is  so  entertaining.  A  gossiping 
gadabout,  a  busybody,  a  scold ;  manners  of  an 
English  sparrow  (which  alone  is  enough  to  have 
him  hanged),  he— but  what  shall  I  say  more? 
This  :  that,  in  spite  of  his  faults,  I  like  him  and 
don't  want  him  hanged. 

I  often  go  into  the  woods  when  I  deserve  and 
enjoy  a  scolding.  Many  a  day,  many  an  acre 
hereabout,  would  utterly  lack  the  sound  and 
form  of  any  wild  thing  were  it  not  for  Chick- 
aree. He  is  mostly  sound,  I  know ;  yet  he  has 
agile  legs,  too,  and  quick  wit  and  audacity.  He 
has  a  constitution  and  an  ability  to  take  care 
of  himself  that  I  like  to  think  of.  See  how  he 
thrives.  You  cannot  find  a  deep  wood,  a  shaded 
roadside,  a  park,  or  a  graveyard  to  which  Chick- 
aree does  not  dispute  the  title. 

I  once  met  one  who  claimed  to  own,  if  I 
understood  him,  the  whole  north  slope  of  Mount 
Washington.  This  was  really  more  than  he 
needed,  but  he  was  a  very  greedy  squirrel,  and 
I  smile  now  as  I  remember  how  his  greed  over- 
reached itself  and  how  it  brought  him  low. 
[  237  ] 


The  mountain  did  not  fall  upon  him,  only 
half  a  loaf  of  bread.  But  half  a  loaf  of  bread,  if 
it  falls  just  right,  may  hurt,  as  every  one  knows 
who  has  dropped  even  a  slice  of  bread  on  his 
toes— butter  side  down. 

Descending  the  mountain  by  way  of  the  car- 
riage-road, we  stopped  at  a  little  stone  bridge 
to  eat  our  lunch,  when  this  squirrel  came  forth 
and  ordered  us  on.  He  immediately  smelled 
the  lunch,  however,  and  grew  silent,  creeping 
up  within  arm's-reach  of  us,  watching  how  we 
ate.  He  showed  no  sign  of  timidity,  only  curi- 
osity, then  wonder,  then  deep,  delighted  sniff- 
ings. The  smells  of  molasses  cookies  and  Summit 
House  rolls  were  new  savors,  new  and  gnawing. 
They  made  him  hungry,  so  madly  hungry  that, 
when  I  turned  and  threw  the  lunch-box  into 
the  dry  bed  of  the  stream,  he  was  into  it  almost 
as  soon  as  it  landed. 

His  first  bite  was  of  bread  and  butter.  With- 
out pausing  to  chew  it,  he  seized  the  slice,  scurried 
off  down  a  log,  and  disappeared  in  the  forest. 
"Where  is  he  taking  it?"  we  asked.  Not  far 
away,  for  suddenly  he  popped  over  a  rock,  gave 
us  a  quick  glance,  and  jumped  into  the  box  again. 
[238] 


There  were  several  cookies  left  in  the  box, 
some  slices  of  bread,  and  nearly  half  a  loaf  of 
bread  uncut. 

Down  the  log  ran  Chickaree  with  a  second 
slice,  I  watching  from  where  I  sat,  following 
him  by  the  gleam  of  the  white  bread,  which 
showed  clearly  in  the  tangle  and  dark  of  the 
forest.  It  flashed,  then  vanished,  then  flashed 
again  into  view— flash,  flash,  flash— round  and 
round  and  round  up  a  tall  spruce,  till  I  lost  it 
in  the  top.  We  were  trying  to  catch  sight  of 
him  returning,  when  he  startled  us  by  again 
landing,  with  a  sudden  leap,  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  box. 

This  time  he  found  the  uncut  loaf;  and  he 
also  found  the  measure  of  his  wit  and  muscle. 
Now  he  grew  greedy.  He  should  have  been 
content  with  the  slices.  Covetousness,  also,  goeth 
before  a  fall. 

There  are  some  of  us  humans  who  will  take 
the  half -loaf  when  we  cannot  get  the  whole ; 
but  it  were  better  for  most  of  us  if  even  the 
half -loaf  were  sliced.  How  much  better  it 
would  have  been  for  Chickaree  ! 

Here  was  a  windfall,  such  a  windfall  as  comes 
[239] 


but  once  to  a  mountain  squirrel,  and  Chickaree 
was  excited.  How  was  he  to  hide  this  big  piece  ? 
Yes,  hide  it ;  for  it  was  plain  to  us  that  he  meant 
no  other  squirrel  to  share  his  luck,  or  even 
know  about  it,  else  why  his  silence,  excitement, 
and  hurry  ? 

Tilting  the  loaf  up,  he  fixed  his  long  teeth  into 
the  top  crust,  and  by  dint  of  backing  and  pulling 
got  out  of  the  gully,  landing  the  loaf  in  time 
upon  the  top  of  a  flat  rock.  Unable  to  raise  his 
load  clear,  he  came  round  behind  it  in  order  to 
push.  It  was  slow,  hard  work.  Becoming  more 
and  more  anxious,  he  forgot  that  the  rock,  in 
the  direction  he  was  going,  ended  abruptly  with 
a  sheer  fall  of  ten  feet. 

On  he  struggled  across  the  rough,  lichened 
surface,  inch  by  inch,  until,  catching  a  good  foot- 
hold, he  gave  a  mighty  shove  and  went  over, 
he  and  his  loaf  together,  striking  with  a  beauti- 
ful splash  in  a  little  pool  of  water  below. 

We  took  a  bit  of  wicked  pleasure  in  his  fall, 
as  we  saw  him  scramble  out  unhurt.  He  came 
out,  however,  still  holding  to  his  loaf.  But  it 
was  thoroughly  soaked  now, — a  condition  that 
was  evidently  new  to  Chickaree,— and  as  he 
[240] 


dragged  it  up  the  crust  came  off,  letting  the  loaf 
tumble  back  into  the  water.  He  ran  away  to 
hide  the  crust,  then  came  back  quickly  to  the 
pool. 

It  was  fun  to  see  him  fish  for  that  queer  piece 
of  bread.  He  would  catch  it  in  his  paws,  take 
it  in  his  mouth,  scoop  and  pull  and  root,  but 
each  time  get  only  crumbs.  The  provoking 
stuff  had  suddenly  gone  soft— or  bewitched.  It 
would  not  come  out. 

But  Chickaree  was  not  bewitched.  He  was 
angry — plain  old- Adam  anger.  Up  on  the  log 
he  jumped,  flipped  his  tail,  clawed  the  bark, 
and,  with  a  burst  of  passion,  gave  the  whole 
mountain  a  furious  upbraiding.  It  was  the 
mountain,  for  he  looked  at  nothing  in  particular, 
nothing  smaller.  He  railed.  After  one  terrible 
minute  he  came  back  to  us,  coughing  and  husky 
and  sore  in  the  throat. 

When  he  reached  the  box,  how  quickly  his 
spirit  changed  !  No  April  sky  ever  broke  more 
suddenly  into  rainy  sunshine  than  Chickaree  on 
picking  up  one  of  the  molasses  cookies.  He  was 
surprised  and  delighted.  Never  had  he  tasted 
its  like.  Birch  catkins  and  beechnuts'?  Flat! 
ie  [  241  ] 


Simply  flat  ill  comparison.  Even  the  tender 
terminal  buds  of  the  pine  would  be  tasteless 
now.  And  stale  acorns  f  Dreadful ! 

All  this  we  saw  in  his  countenance  as  he  took 
the  first  mouthful  and  bolted  with  the  cooky. 
He  bolted,  but  stopped  short  for  another  bite. 
Then  on  he  went,  only  to  halt  for  a  third  bite ; 
started  again,  but  came  to  a  dead  stop  on  the  end 
of  the  log,  and  finished  the  cooky  then  and  there. 

I  now  went  after  him  to  see  if  I  could  find 
where  he  had  hidden  the  bread.  As  I  stepped 
upon  the  log,  he  turned  and  came  down  it  toward 
me.  I  have  always  wished  since  that  I  had  not 
flinched. 

He  drew  near ;  walked  over  my  foot  and 
smelled  of  me.  Cookies  !  Where  ?  He  sniffed 
and  sniffed ;  then  catching  the  odor  of  the  hand 
hanging  at  my  side,  he  stood  up  to  get  a  bite, 
when  the  foolish  hand  twitched.  That  was 
enough.  It  had  moved.  He  would  not  approach 
me  again. 

The  two  slices  I  found,  but  not  the  crust. 
One  of  them  was  high  up  in  the  top  of  a  spruce, 
the  other  in  the  moss  behind  a  stump. 

Perhaps  these  were  temporary  hiding-places, 
[242] 


chosen  hurriedly  in  his  excitement,  from  which, 
later  on,  he  would  collect  his  spoil  for  storage  in 
some  secret  hollow.  I  am  not  certain,  however, 
that  Chickaree  has  a  barn,  a  winter  storehouse. 
I  have  often  found  collections  of  pignuts  in  old 
tree-hollows  that  looked  as  if  Chickaree  had 
stored  them  there.  Still  they  were  always  shells 
only.  The  whole  nuts  may  have  been  carried 
into  the  hollows  for  safety  and  convenience,  a 
few  at  a  time,  as  they  were  to  be  eaten. 

Yet,  more  than  once  I  have  caught  Chickaree 
stuffing  hollow  rails  with  corn.  Perhaps  he  in- 
tended to  keep  this  store  against  the  winter.  I 
suspect,  for  I  know  Chickaree,  that  it  was  more 
mischief  and  itching  for  occupation,  than  pro- 
vision against  need. 

He  never  finished  the  stuffing.  Long  before 
the  cavity  was  full  the  little  scatterbrain  would 
be  off  at  some  other  active  but  useless  task,  leav- 
ing his  store  to  be  found  and  devoured  by 
the  jays  or  the  mice.  Chickaree  will  never  re- 
member that  the  second  rail  from  the  bottom, 
in  the  section  between  the  stump  and  the  sas- 
safras-tree, holds  a  pint  of  golden  corn. 

All  wild  animals  are  mere  children.     They  all 
[243] 


love  to  put  things  into  holes.  They  all  must  be 
busy— if  with  nothing  else  than  their  tails.  But 
they  rarely  work. 

I  knew  a  chickaree  who  lived  in  a  little  glen 
by  the  side  of  Thorn  Mountain  Cabin,  whose 
activity  took  on  the  character  of  real  work.  But 
why  in  August,  two  months  before  the  end  of 
the  harvest,  he  should  pick  green  catkins  from 
the  birch,  I  don't  know.  You  cannot  store  them 
when  they  are  dead  ripe,  perhaps,  for  they  may 
fall  to  pieces.  As  I  watched  him,  however,  I 
concluded  he  was  doing  the  work,  not  seriously, 
but  for  fun.  He  must  do  something ;  and  this 
tree,  full  of  little  cones,  appealed  to  him  as  a  box 
of  buttons  to  a  baby. 

He  owned  this  great  single  birch  at  the  head 
of  the  glen.  He  lived  in  it  alone,  and  warred 
against  all  trespassers,  birds  or  beasts. 

I  have  seen  him  chase  a  junco  up  and  down 
and  across  the  top  until  the  bird  flew  off.  A 
flock  of  them  settling  among  the  branches  drove 
him  frantic.  I,  too,  called  down  his  wrath  ;  but 
after  a  week  of  daily  visits  he  allowed  me  to 
stretch  out  upon  the  moss  beneath  the  low  wide 
limbs  and  watch  him  work. 
[244] 


His  morning  task  was  to  hide  about  a  pint  of 
catkins  from  this  yellow  birch  in  a  secret  crib 
among  the  ferns  of  the  glen.  Morning  after 
morning  I  found  him  busy,  sometimes  arriving 
early  enough  to  see  him  begin ;  and  I  am  quite 
sure  he  often  did  his  stint  before  he  took  break- 
fast. 

Up  and  down  the  tree  he  would  race,  a  round 
trip  every  three  minutes,  loaded  with  a  single 
catkin  each  time  down.  After  storing  about 
thirty  he  would  stop  with  one  upon  a  certain 
bottom  limb,  and  here,  on  the  under  side  of  the 
leaning  bole,  safely  hidden  from  overhead  ene- 
mies, he  would  begin  breakfast,  scattering  the 
winged  seeds,  as  he  ate  the  catkin,  down  in  a 
thin  flaky  shower  upon  me  underneath.  He 
always  ate  squatting  close  upon  this  same  limb 
and  backed  up  against  the  trunk.  The  ground 
below  was  snowed  under  with  the  scales  which 
had  fallen  as  he  husked  the  seeds. 

Here,  too,  he  slept,  I  think,  during  the  summer 
nights.  He  may  have  had  a  hole  among  the 
rocks,  but  I  am  sure  he  had  no  nest  in  the  glen. 
Having  lived  only  part  of  the  year  with  these 
mountain  squirrels,  I  am  not  so  well  acquainted 
[245] 


with  their  nesting  habits  as  I  am  with  those  of  the 
squirrels  in  the  piny  woods  of  New  Jersey.  The 
red  squirrels  are  very  abundant  among  the  pines, 
and  here  they  live  in  nests  the  year  around. 

These  beds  are  very  bulky,  built  mostly  of 
cedar  bark,  stripped  fine  and  matted  into  an 
irregular  mass  the  size  of  a  hat.  The  doorways 
open  from  the  bottoms  or  sides,  leaving  the  roofs 
without  a  crack  and  perfectly  waterproof. 

Sometimes  an  abandoned  crow's  nest  is  taken 
for  the  foundation.  In  this  a  deep,  soft  bed  of 
newly  shredded  bark  is  made,  and  a  thatch  of 
the  same  material  laid  on  above.  Such  a  nest 
will  not  rock  and  sway  when  the  winds  are  high, 
as  the  gray  squirrel's  often  will ;  for  the  crows 
did  not  build  out  in  the  hands  of  the  branches, 
but  close  up  on  the  shoulders.  What  it  lacks  of 
that  kind  of  thrill,  however,  will  be  more  than 
made  good  by  the  comfort  and  security  obtained 
from  the  thick  nest-bottom  of  the  crows. 

About  my  home  in  New  England  Chickaree 
is  almost  a  ground-squirrel,  rarely  traveling  a 
road  higher  than  a  stone  wall.  But  in  the 
Southern  pines  he  runs  the  tree-tops,  scam- 
pering along  the  dizzy  roads  almost  as  fast  as 
[246] 


one  can  run  on  the  ground  beneath.  It  makes 
one  pause  to  see  him  skip  along  a  slender  limb, 
jump  to  a  second,  race  out  to  its  tip,  and  leap- 
clearing  fifteen  feet — to  catch  the  very  ends  of 
another  limb  swaying  in  the  air  fifty  feet  above 
one. 

During  the  early  summer  the  tender  terminal 
buds  of  the  pine  (barring  young  birds)  furnish 
Chickaree  the  bulk  of  his  food.  Acorns,  chest- 
nuts, corn,  and  the  pine-cone  seeds  he  eats  later 
on  in  the  fall  and  winter. 

He  seems  particularly  abundant  and  particu- 
larly at  home  among  the  pines.  He  and  Scelop- 
orus,  the  pine-tree  lizard,  are  joint  possessors 
of  the  sandy  barrens.  And  Chickaree  fits  his 
surroundings.  The  gray  squirrel's  color  blends 
naturally  with  the  neutral,  lichen-mottled  boles 
of  the  oak  and  maple  woods.  He  is  rarely 
found  in  the  pines ;  but  that  is  partly  because 
he  is  afraid  of  Chickaree  and  hates  him  as  he 
hates  poison.  Chickaree's  color  is  piny,  shading 
perfectly  with  the  dusky  red-browns  of  the 
barrens.  These  are  his  rightful  realm.  Fortu- 
nately he  does  less  harm  here  than  almost  any- 
where else,  for  the  small  birds  that  nest  in  the 
[247] 


pines  are  comparatively  few.  Here  he  may  live, 
for  we  liave  no  cause  to  carry  our  war  with  him 
into  the  barrens. 

There  is  a  large  clump  of  pines  beyond  Cubby 
Hollow  where  I  am  always  sure  of  a  chickaree- 
scolding.  The  moment  I  get  within  range  one 
of  the  little  wretches  will  climb  a  tree  and  warn 
me  to  keep  out.  He  is  instantly  joined  by 
several  others,  and  together  they  follow  me  over- 
head, disputing  every  step  with  me,  swaggering, 
growling,  and  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  threat 
and  abuse  until  wheezy  and  winded. 

It  is  bluster,  most  of  it ;  they  love  to  make  a 
noise.  If  I  drop  down  at  the  foot  of  a  low- 
limbed  pine,  they  gather  round,  anxious  for  a 
look  at  me,  close  to.  Once  I  remember  that  a 
chipmunk  joined  them,  and  his  daring  lent  them 
courage.  Then  came  an  inquisitive  little  chick- 
adee, behind  whom  one  of  the  squirrels,  now 
only  a  bundle  of  curiosity,  crept  down  within 
reach  of  me,  flattened  himself  to  the  trunk,  and 
began  a  running  comment,  a  speculation  as  to 
my  character,  in  little  broken  snorts,  sniffs, 
coughs,  and  snickers,  emphasizing  it  all  with 
jerky  gesticulations  of  his  tail. 
[248] 


What  did  he  say  about  me  ?  Slighting  things, 
I  have  no  doubt ;  deriding  me,  perhaps,  because 
I  could  not  climb  trees  and  bite  off  pine-buds. 
I  don't  know.  But  I  do  know  this,  that,  what- 
ever he  said,  I  enjoyed  having  him  near  me,  for 
I  am  sure  that  he  half  enjoyed  my  being  near 
him.  And  I  like  the  pines  better  for  his  sake. 
They  would  often  be  dull  and  silent  if  he  were 
gone,  for  the  pines  are  not  companionable  trees. 
He  is  their  spirit  of  lightness,  gaiety,  and  chatter. 


[249] 


BIRD    FRIENDSHIPS 


BIRD   FRIENDSHIPS 

IT  is  not  the  sight  of  mere  numbers  that  inter- 
ests us  as  the  "gathering  swallows  twitter 
in  the  skies,"  but  rather  the  gathering  itself,  and 
the  twittering — the  feeling  of  kinship  and  com- 
mon interest  which  we  see  in  the  flocking. 
These  birds  are  apparently  social  creatures  ;  and 
social  feelings  are  human.  By  so  much  are  we 
and  the  swallows  one. 

It  shows  a  very  pleasing  quality  in  bird  na- 
ture, this  need  which  leads  them  to  flock ;  and 
it  seems  sometimes  to  be  a  deeper,  more  human 
feeling  than  mere  bird-of-a-feather  interest — 
something  close  akin  to  friendship. 

The  autumn  flocking  of  the  swallows  and  the 
[253] 


blackbirds,  while  far  from  meaning  friendship, 
means  a  great  deal  more  indeed  than  polite  so- 
ciability, a  drawing-room  gathering. 

There  seem  to  be  such  functions  in  birddom. 
A  very  select  and  unspotted  company  of  crows 
in  my  neighborhood  meet  frequently  throughout 
late  summer  and  in  the  autumn,  for  no  other 
reason,  apparently,  than  the  pleasure  of  one  an- 
other's society.  They  are  as  decorous  as  they 
are  select,  usually,  though  not  always. 

One  day  I  will  see  them  sitting  about  in  the 
top  of  a  great  solitary  white  oak  beyond  the 
meadow  and  talking  quietly.  Gossip  running 
short,  they  adjourn  to  the  meadow  below  for  an 
equally  quiet  feed  along  the  little  river.  An- 
other day  I  will  hear  them  boisterously  caw- 
cawing  in  a  very  gale  of  good  time.  There  is 
fun  awing.  Somebody  is  "  it."  Suddenly  into 
the  air  they  scatter,  and  up,  in  the  tumbling, 
whirling  confusion  of  some  game,  all  cawing  at 
the  top  of  their  lungs.  I  am  not  versed  in  crow 
sports,  but  this  looks  and  sounds  very  much  like 
the  rough-and-tumble  of  a  college  foot-ball 
contest.  On  yet  another  day  the  loud  cawing 
will  be  furious  and  angry.  Anybody  can  tell 
[254] 


when  a  crow  is  aiigry.  If  I  wait  now,  I  am 
pretty  certain  to  see  the  whole  elect  company 
drumming  a  red-tailed  hawk  or  a  blundering 
barred  owl  out  of  the  neighborhood. 

They  are  an  exclusive  lot,  these  corbies,  and 
highly  sociable.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  how- 
ever, they  flock  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  it— 
for  the  noise,  the  push,  and  the  gossip  of  a  crowd. 
They  are  neighborly,  but  hardly  show  real 
friendship. 

It  is  somewhat  different  with  the  swallows 
and  with  many  of  the  migrants.  The  same 
friendly  class  feelings  draw  the  swallows  together 
as  draw  the  crows.  A  swallow  is  a  swallow.  But 
migrating  swallows  are  often  not  all  of  one 
feather.  I  have  seen  barn,  bank,  and  tree 
swallows  together,  and  with  them,  in  one  mov- 
ing flock,  king-birds,  martins,  swifts,  and  chip- 
pies. All  of  these,  in  a  general  way,  were  of  the 
same  mind,  liking  and  disliking  the  same  things. 
But,  what  was  far  more,  at  these  migration-times 
they  were  all  of  the  same  purpose :  all  going  a 
journey,  a  journey  full  of  hardships  and  plea- 
sures, common  alike  to  every  one  upon  the  road. 

In  traveling  this  long  unguarded  highway 
[255] 


mere  feather  distinctions  are  likely  to  disappear. 
Mutual  need  and  good-fellowship  prevail.  It 
is  enough  to  be  a  bird,  any  kind  of  a  well- 
disposed  bird,  going  this  southern  journey.  For 
how  does  one  migrating  bird  differ  from  an- 
other? He  does  not  sing  now,  nor  wear  his 
fine  feathers,  nor  do  a  hundred  things  that  in 
the  summer  made  him  sufficient  unto  himself. 
He  just  travels,  and  takes  what  comes  ;  and  the 
more  to  share  it  all,  the  merrier.  A  common 
purpose  started  the  birds  off,  and  now  a  common 
interest  draws  all  of  them  together.  They  are 
not  a  flock,  but  a  company;  not  swallows  and 
swifts  merely :  they  are  bird  pilgrims,  of  many 
feathers,  passing  along  the  strange  migration 
road  to  a  distant  land. 

Perhaps  this  camaraderie  of  the  pilgrimage 
never  reaches  down  to  real  friendship.  But 
what  about  that  fellow-feeling  which  is  brought 
out  by  the  stress  of  winter  ?  This  at  least  must 
come  very  near  to  friendship.  A  lean,  hungry 
winter  makes  close  comrades  among  the  birds. 
They  will  all  flock  then.  The  only  solitary,  de- 
fiant bird  I  meet  in  the  winter  is  the  great 
northern  shrike.  What  a  froward,  stiff-necked 
[256] 


sinner  he  is  !  But  how  superb  !  No  cheeping, 
no  cowering,  no  huddling  together  for  him. 
How  I  hate  and  admire  him  ! 

But  birds  that  have  hearts  in  their  breasts, 
though  they  were  as  foreigners  to  one  another 
in  the  summer,  nesting  in  regions  far  apart,  will 
ilock  during  the  long  deep  snows  and  hard 
weather.  Every  winter  I  see  mixed  bauds  of 
goldfinches,  j  uncos,  and  tree-sparrows  whirling 
over  the  snow,  the  goldfinches  leading — all  of 
them  in  search  of  grass  and  seedy  weed-heads. 
Nuthatches,  kinglets,  and  chickadees  will  yarik- 
yank,  tee-tee,  and  phee-he-be  by  the  hour  together, 
apparently  to  their  great  consolation  and  mu- 
tual support. 

This  misery-made  companionship,  though  real 
and  helpful  at  the  time,  is  doubtless  not  quite 
self-forgetful  enough  to  be  called  friendship.  A 
goaded  friendship  must  lack  something  of  friend- 
ship's virtue. 

Of  a  different  quality  entirely  seems  the  feel- 
ing that  holds  the  broods  of  certain  birds  to- 
gether in  a  real,  intimate  family  life.  Family 
life  among  the  birds  ?  "We  usually  think  of  the 
nestlings  as  being  led  out  by  the  parent  birds 
"  [257] 


and  fed  until  they  learn  to  forage  for  them- 
selves, then  scattering,  each  going  its  separate 
way.  And  so  most  nestlings  do.  But  there  are 
exceptions.  In  some  bird  families  the  young 
grow  up  together,  leaving  neither  parents  nor 
home  neighborhood  until  they  mate  and  build 
homes  of  their  own.  Every  covey  of  quails  is 
such  a  family ;  so,  too,  I  think,  is  every  flock 
of  chickadees.  Every  wedge  of  wild  geese  is 
either  a  family  or  a  small  neighborhood  of  fami- 
lies on  a  journey. 

One  dare  not  let  his  fancy  free  with  the 
thought  of  such  family  life.  It  is  too  danger- 
ously beautiful.  What  intimacies,  what  brother- 
love  and  mother-love,  what  human  home  scenes, 
could  one  not  imagine?  Not  wholly  imagine, 
either.  More  than  one  tender  passage  I  have 
actually  seen  and  heard. 

And  so  have  hundreds  of  observers,  doubtless. 
For  who  has  not  listened  to  a  mother  quail  call- 
ing her  hunted  family  together  when  the  snow 
and  the  night  were  falling  ?  It  is  most  sweetly, 
tenderly  human— the  little  mother,  standing 
upon  the  fence  or  in  the  snow  of  the  silent 
fields,  calling  softly  through  the  storm  until  the 
[258] 


young  ones  answer  and,  one  by  one,  come  hurry- 
ing  to  her  out  of  the   dusk,  and  murmuring. 
Some  of  them  do  not  hear.     They  have  been 
frightened  far  away.    Louder  now  she  whistles  : 
WMr-rl-le,  whir-r-rl-le,  whir-r-r-rl-le  !     But  there 
.j  is  only  the  faint  purr  of  the  falling  snow,  only 
,  darkness  and  the  silent  ghostly  fields. 

Like  little  children,  the  covey  will  sometimes 
dream  or  be  disturbed  by  some  sound  half 
heard  in  their  sleep.  I  have  been  near  when 
the  mother  soothed  them.  A  covey  lived  down 
the  bushy  hillside,  just  beneath  the  house. 
Coming  up  from  the  meadow  one  September 
night,  I  passed  close  to  their  roost,  and  stopped 
in  the  moonlight  just  beyond.  Off  across  the 
meadow  the  hounds  were  baying  on  the  trail  of 
a  fox.  They  were  corning  fast  toward  me.  As 
they  broke  into  the  open  on  the  hills  beyond  the 
meadow,  I  heard  a  movement  among  the  quails, 
then  a  low  murmuring.  The  cry  of  the  hounds 
was  disturbing  the  brood ;  they  were  uneasy 
and  restless :  and  the  mother  was  stilling  their 
fears,  murmuring  something  low  and  soft  to  re- 
assure them. 

They  quieted  at  once ;  and  it  was  well.     A 
[259] 


moment  later,  up  the  narrow  path  by  the  side  of 
which  they  were  sleeping  trotted  the  fox.  Upon 
seeing  me  he  paused,  and  so  close  to  them  that 
their  slightest  stir  would  have  been  caught  by 
his  keen,  quick  ears. 

So  throughout  the  winter  and  far  into  the 
spring  they  live  together,  an  intimate,  happy 
family— more  intimate  and  happier,  perhaps, 
than  many  human  families.  For  see  what  a 
number  of  children  there  are  !  It  is  significant, 
is  it  not,  that  only  large  bird  families  apparently 
know  the  joy  of  family  life? 

Even  here  among  the  quail  there  may  be  no 
real  love  and  friendship,  no  affection,  no  sharing 
among  the  children.  But  there  must  be  true 
mother-love  in  the  breast  of  such  a  mother  bird 
as  this.  Then  why  not  love  in  the  children? 

Interpret  it  as  we  please,  with  or  without  sen- 
timent, we  cannot  deny  the  existence  of  this 
family  life  among  the  birds. 

The  need  of  guidance,  of  food  and  protection, 
may  explain  it  in  the  case  of  the  migrating 
geese ;  but  this  is  not  enough  for  the  quail  and 
the  chickadee  families. 

[260] 


FAKM-YARD   STUDIES 


FARM-YARD  STUDIES 


WE  were  tied  up  for  the  night.  Dusk  and 
the  swamp  silence  had  settled — settled 
with  a  distinctness  and  presence  almost  super- 
natural. A  banjo  had  been  twanging,  but  the 
breakdown  was  done,  the  shuffling  feet  quiet. 
The  little  cotton-boat  had  become  a  part  of  the 
moonlit  silence  and  the  river  swamp. 

Two  or  three  roustabouts  were  sitting  atop 
the  rosin-barrels  near  by,  under  the  spell,  appa- 
[263] 


rently,  of  the  round  autumnal  nioon.  There  was 
frost  in  the  air  and  a  thousand  fragrant  odors 
from  the  ripened  swamp  ;  but  not  a  cry  nor  call 
in  the  stillness,  until,  suddenly,  breaking  through 
the  hush  with  a  jarring,  eery  echo,  sounded  the 
hoot  of  a  great  horned  owl. 

One  of  the  roustabouts  dropped  to  the  deck, 
holding  up  his  hand.  We  listened.  Again  the 
weird,  startling  Whoo,  hoo-hoo-hoo-whoo-you-ah- 
ahl 

"Dat  de  king  owl,"  whispered  the  darky. 
"He 's  out  for  turkey.  OP  gobbler  done  gone 
hid.  Listen !  de  king  owl  gwine  make  him 
talk." 

We  listened,  waiting ;  but  there  came  no  an- 
swering talk,  no  gobble  of  challenge  out  of  the 
swamp.  I  sat  up  until  the  moon  rode  high 
overhead,  hoping  "de  king  owl"  would  drive 
one  of  the  wild  swamp  turkeys  from  its  tree-top 
roost  and  send  him  fluttering  and  talking  over 
the  open  river.  I  was  to  have  a  sight  of  one  the 
next  day,— a  dead  one,— but  I  am  still  waiting 
to  see  and  hear  the  great  bronze  bird  alive  in 
its  native  haunts. 

They  were  all  about  me  here  on  the  Savannah 
[264] 


— a  few  of  them.  The  next  day  at  one  of  the 
landings  a  colored  boy  brought  a  fine  gobbler 
aboard  which  he  had  shot  back  in  the  swamp. 
In  the  tops  of  the  tall  cottonwoods  all  through 
the  wilder  stretches  of  the  South  and  the  great 
Southwest,  scattering  flocks  of  the  native  wild 
turkeys  still  roost.  They  are  so  few  and  wild, 
however,  that  the  naturalist  who  would  study 
the  habits  of  the  bird  is  almost  compelled,  nowa- 
days, to  go  to  the  barn-yard,  tame  and  unfo- 
mantic  as  that  locality  is. 

If  one  does  not  mind  the  setting,  he  will  find 
the  barn-yard  a  more  convenient  place  of  study 
and  quite  as  good  as  the  primeval  forests ;  for 
the  turkey  is  a  maddeningly  perverse,  persistent 
creature,  that  centuries  of  civilizing  still  leave 
as  unchanged  in  habit  as  in  looks.  When  wild 
turkeys  in  the  market  hang  side  by  side  with 
tame  ones,  only  a  keen-eyed  naturalist  can  tell 
from  their  appearance  which  birds  had  never 
seen  a  barn-yard,  and  which  had  descended  by  a 
traceable  barn-yard  line  from  the  year  1526.  No 
less  persistent  have  been  the  old  wild  habits  of 
the  birds. 

Like  our  house-cats,  the  turkeys  wear  a  cloak 
[265] 


of  domesticity ;  but  not  even  pussy  could  put 
hers  off  and  go  utterly  wild  more  readily  than 
the  turkey.  Not  an  original  woods  trait  or 
habit  seems  to  have  been  radically  changed— 
hardly  altered — by  all  our  fine  efforts  on  the 
birds  at  home  and  abroad.  For  the  turkey  has 
traveled.  He  is  strictly  an  American,— Mexi- 
can, perhaps, —sailing  first  from  Mexican  shores 
about  1526,  and  not  returning  until  the  Pilgrims 
and  early  settlers  came.  He  was  brought  back 
a  larger  bird  than  when  he  first  set  out,  but  still 
a  turkey  and  unalterably  American. 

Which  does  not  mean  that  he  is  a  good 
American,  deserving  the  eagle's  national  place. 
The  turkey  is  unalterable  because  he  cannot 
learn  anything,  so  nearly  brainless  is  he.  The 
father— it  was  the  mother— of  all  the  turkeys 
was  originally  endowed  with  two  wits  and  as 
many  crafty  ways  as  she  had  toes.  Since  her 
day  no  turkey-hen  has  gained  a  third  wit,  nor 
learned  a  new  way,  nor  forgotten  one  of  the  old 
ones.  No  turkey  -gobbler  ever  had  or  shall  have 
any  wit  at  all. 

From  Spain,  whence  the  turkey  spread  over 
Europe,  we  can  trace  his  wanderings  back  to  the 
[266] 


West  Indies,  and  farther  back  to  Mexico,  where 
the  parent  stock  still  survives.  It  is  from  this 
Southwestern  variety,  Meleagris  mexicana,  and 
not  from  the  variety  in  the  East  and  North, 
that  our  domestic  turkey  has  sprung.  The  only 
marked  difference  in  the  two  varieties  is  that 
mexicana  has  creamy-white  tips  to  his  tail-feath- 
ers and  to  those  over-lapping  the  base  of  the 
tail,  while  gallopavo' s  tips  are  chestnut-brown. 
The  Southwestern  bird,  too,  is  somewhat  greener 
than  the  Northern. 

Both  varieties  are  growing  very  rare,  and  be- 
fore long  will  become  extinct.  Our  Northern 
bird  was  abundant  in  some  parts  as  late  as 
Audubon's  day.  He  bought  them  for  "  three- 
pence each."  Yet  he  says,  speaking  of  the 
Alleghanies :  "While  in  the  Great  Pine  Forest 
in  1829,  I  found  a  single  feather  that  had  been 
dropped  from  the  tail  of  a  female,  but  saw  no 
bird  of  the  kind."  One  can  range  half  of  the 
country  now  and  not  find  so  much  as  a  feather. 

If  they  were  wholly  gone,  if  they  had  never 
been  studied  wild  by  the  naturalists,  we  still 
could  almost  write  the  life-history  of  the  bird 
from  the  habits  of  our  tame  turkeys. 
[267] 


The  tame  turkey-hen  is  notorious  for  stealing 
her  nest.  The  wild  hen  steals  hers— not  to  ex- 
asperate her  owner,  of  course,  as  is  the  common 
belief  about  the  domestic  turkey,  but  to  get 
away  from  the  gobbler,  who,  in  order  to  prolong 
the  honeymoon,  will  break  the  eggs  as  fast  as 
they  are  laid.  He  would  lay  him  down  and 
die,  almost,  for  female  adoration.  He  has  just 
enough  brains  to  be  sentimental,  jealous,  and 
boundlessly  fond  of  himself.  His  wives,  too, 
are  fools  enough  to  worship  him,  until— there 
comes  an  egg.  That  event  makes  them  wise. 
They  understand  this  strutting  coxcomb,  and 
quietly  turning  their  backs  on  him,  leave  him 
to  parade  to  his  precious  self  alone. 

There  are  crows,  also,  and  buzzards  from  whom 
the  hen  must  hide  the  eggs.  Nor  dare  she  for- 
get her  own  danger  while  sitting,  for  there  are 
foxes,  owls,  and  prowling  lynxes  ready  enough 
to  pounce  upon  her.  On  the  farm  most  of  these 
enemies  have  taken  human  form. 

For  a  nest  the  wild  hen,  like  her  sister  in  the 
pasture-woods,  scratches  a  slight  depression  in 
the  ground,  usually  under  a  thick  bush,  some- 
times in  a  hollow  log,  and  lays  from  twelve  to 
[268] 


twenty  eggs,  which  are  somewhat  smaller  and 
more  elongated  than  the  taine  turkey's,  but  of 
the  same  color  :  dull  cream,  sprinkled  with  red- 
dish dots. 

More  than  one  hunt  for  the  stolen  turkey  nest 
has  been  futile  because  the  cautious  mother  cov- 
ered the  eggs  carefully  when  leaving  them. 
This  is  one  of  the  wild  habits  that  have  persisted. 
The  wild  hen,  as  the  hatching  approaches,  will 
not  trust  even  this  precaution,  but  remains  with- 
out food  and  drink  upon  the  nest  until  the 
chicks  can  be  led  off.  She  can  scarcely  be 
driven  from  it,  often  allowing  herself  to  be  cap- 
tured first. 

Mother-love  burns  fierce  in  her.  Such  help- 
less things  are  her  chicks !  She  hears  them 
peeping  in  the  shell  and  breaks  it  to  help  them 
out.  She  preens  and  dries  them  and  keeps  them 
close  under  her  for  days. 

Not  for  a  week  after  hatching  does  she  allow 
them  out  in  a  rain.  After  that,  against  the  cold 
of  a  wetting,  the  wild  mother,  it  is  said,  will  feed 
the  buds  of  the  spice-bush  to  her  brood,  as  our 
grandmothers  used  to  administer  mint  tea. 

The  tame  hen  seems  to  have  lost  much  of  this 
[269] 


native  mother  skill,  doubtless  because  for  many 
generations  she  has  been  relieved  of  the  larger 
part  of  the  responsibility.  I  never  knew  one  to 
doctor  her  infants  for  vermin.  But  the  wild 
hen  will.  The  woods  are  full  of  ticks  and  de- 
testable vermin  as  deadly  as  cold  rains.  When 
her  brood  begins  to  lag  and  pine,  the  mother 
knows,  and  leading  them  to  some  old  ant-hill, 
she  gives  them  a  sousing  dust-bath.  The  vermin 
hate  the  odor  of  the  ant-scented  dust,  and  after 
a  series  of  washings  disappear. 

This  is  wise ;  but  if  report  be  true,  then  the 
wild  turkey  is  as  wise  and  far-seeing  a  mother  as 
the  woods  contain.  One  observer  tells  of  three 
hens  that  stole  off  together  and  fixed  up  a  nest 
between  themselves.  Each  put  in  her  eggs — 
forty-two  in  all— and  each  took  turns  guarding, 
so  that  the  nest  was  never  left  alone. 

What  special  enemy  caused  this  unique  part- 
nership the  naturalist  does  not  say.  The  three 
mothers  built  together,  brooded  together,  and 
together  guarded  the  nest.  But  how  did  those 
three  mothers  divide  the  babies? 

Every  one  who  has  had  the  least  to  do  with 
turkeys  knows  their  timidity  and  indecision. 
[270] 


How  often,  as  a  boy,  I  have  watched  them  going 
to  roost  in  the  apple-trees  and  counted  the  times 
they  have  stretched  their  necks  and  bobbed, 
preparatory  to  an  upward  move !  I  don't  re- 
member the  best  record  for  false  moves,  but  so 
distinct  is  the  impression  of  the  hesitancy  and 
timid  bobbing  that  I  never  see  a  live  turkey 
without  saying  mentally : 

One  for  the  money,  two  for  the  show, 

Three  to  get  ready,  and  four  to— get  ready  again. 

These  traits  lead  the  wild  birds  to  very  absurd 
actions  in  the  course  of  their  autumn  wan- 
derings. 

Late  in  October  the  turkeys  of  each  neighbor- 
hood get  together  in  flocks  of  from  ten  to  a 
hundred  and  travel  on  foot  through  the  rich 
bottom-lands  in  search  of  food.  In  these  jour- 
neys the  males  go  ahead,  apart  from  the  females, 
and  lead  the  way.  The  hens,  each  conducting 
her  family  in  a  more  or  less  separate  group, 
come  straggling  leisurely  along  in  the  rear.  As 
they  advance,  they  meet  other  flocks,  thus  swell- 
ing their  numbers. 

After  a  time  they  are  sure  to  come  to  a  river 
[271] 


—a  dreadful  thing,  for,  like  the  river  of  the 
song,  it  is  one  to  cross.  Up  and  down  the  banks 
stalk  the  gobblers,  stretching  their  necks  out 
over  the  water  and  making  believe  to  start,  as 
they  do  when  going  to  roost  in  the  apple-trees. 

All  day  long,  all  the  next  day,  all  the  third 
day,  if  the  river  is  wide,  they  strut  and  cluck 
along  the  shore,  getting  up  their  courage.  The 
ridiculous  creatures  have  wings ;  they  can  fly ; 
but  they  are  afraid !  By  this  time,  however, 
the  whole  flock  has  mounted  the  tallest  trees 
along  the  bank.  One  of  the  gobblers  has  come 
forward  as  leader  in  the  emergency.  Suddenly, 
from  his  perch,  he  utters  a  single  cluck,— the 
signal  for  the  start,— and  every  turkey  sails  into 
the  air.  There  is  a  great  flapping — and  the 
terrible  river  is  crossed. 

A  few  weak  members  fall  on  the  way  over, 
but  not  to  drown.  Drawing  the  wings  close  in 
against  their  sides,  and  spreading  their  round 
fan-like  tails  to  the  breeze,  they  strike  out  as  if 
born  to  swim,  and  come  quickly  to  land. 

The  hens  tag  along  at  the  beginning  of  the 
migration  in  order  to  keep  their  young  out  of 
the  way  of  the  old  ill-natured  gobblers  who  will 
[272] 


kill  them.  Toward  the  end  of  the  wandering,  in 
late  November,  the  young  are  heavy  enough  to 
fight  for  themselves ;  and  finally,  at  the  finding 
of  a  particularly  rich  mast  of  nuts  or  winter 
grapes,  the  flocks  mingle  indiscriminately,  and 
*  remain  united  until  the  spring. 


II 


AT  the  tail-end  of  the  line  of  farm-yard  inhabi- 
tants, far  below  the  pig  in  interest  and  intelli- 
gence, stands  the  gobbler.  Of  all  our  birds  there 
is  in  him  the  least  to  be  commended.  Roasting 
alone  redeems  him.  Strangely  enough,  asso- 
ciated with  him  in  the  yard,  served  with  him  at 
the  same  Thanksgiving  table,  is  the  bird  at  the 
head  of  the  line.  I  doubt  if  there  is  bird  or 
beast,  wild  or  tame,  that  for  real  interest  and 
admirable  nature  approaches  the  gander. 

Certainly  no  other  bird  voice  comes  to  us 
with  a  clearer  call,  no  other  flight  so  quickens 
us,  no  other  life  among  birds  reads  so  like  an 
epic  as  the  wild  gander's,  this  voyageur  of  the 
clouds,  this  ranger  of  the  zones. 

Farm-yard  life  for  the  goose  is  an  entirely  dif- 
is  [273] 


ferent  thing  from  the  wild,  free  life  of  his  free 
wild  relatives.  In  this  he  differs  from  the  tur- 
key— because  he  has  more  sense,  and  hence  is 
more  adaptable  ;  and  because  his  farm-yard  life 
reaches  farther  back  into  the  far-away  past.  He 
has  had  more  time  to  forget  and  to  learn.  Mor- 
ally he  has  resisted  the  degenerating  influences 
of  his  human  associations  most  marvelously.  He 
has  not  the  wings  of  former  days  ;  but  this  is 
not  his  fault.  Even  a  goose,  by  taking  thought, 
cannot  turn  pounds  of  his  over-fed  body  into 
inches  of  wing. 

The  wild  Canada  geese,  whose  honking,  as 
they  pass,  still  stirs  vague  longings  in  their  fat 
brothers  of  the  farm-yard,  and  sets  them  honk- 
ing in  reply,  will  doubtless  long  outlast  the 
dwindling  flocks  of  wild  turkeys.  Along  with 
the  extreme  dangers  of  migration,  there  seem  to 
go  superior  gifts  of  brain  and  wing  and  body 
which  more  than  compensate.  The  turkey 
wanders  a  little  on  foot,  but  he  is  a  serf,  quite 
fast  to  the  soil.  The  goose  is  a  migrant  and 
hence  is  free. 

In  February  the  Canada  geese  are  scattered 
along  the  margins  of  our  Southern  waters,  al- 
[274] 


ready  preparing  for  their  flight  northward  to 
Canada,  Labrador,  and  Alaska.  Early  spring 
finds  them  back  in  their  breeding-haunts  with 
nests  well  under  way.  Then,  by  September,  the 
long  return  flight  begins,  the  flocks  passing  over 
the  Middle  States  for  a  month  or  more,  but  all 
reaching  the  warm  shores  of  the  South  before 
our  Northern  waters  are  closed. 

This  journey  in  the  spring  is  a  honeymoon 
trip;  in  the  fall,  a  family  excursion.  The  wild 
geese  (this  cannot  be  said  of  tame  ones)  are 
ideally  wedded.  Nothing  of  the  gobbler's  polyg- 
amy, jealousy,  and  viciousness  is  shown  by  the 
gander  ;  the  goose  does  not  steal  away  from  him 
to  make  her  nest.  She  and  he  are  "engaged" 
before  the  spring  migration  begins.  They  sail 
away  in  company  with  like  lovers  to  wed  and 
go  oif  together  as  soon  as  the  flock  reaches  the 
Northern  nesting-meadows. 

Housekeeping  for  the  geese  is  a  particularly 
serious  business.  The  gander  assumes  his  full 
share  of  the  trouble.  He  never  shirks  nor  leaves 
his  mate.  Day  and  night  he  stands  on  duty, 
guarding  the  mother  and  the  nest— with  his  life 
if  need  be— against  all  enemies.  He  even  helps 
[275] 


hatch  the  eggs,  which  is  the  limit  of  faithful- 
ness. 

The  nest  is  a  collection  of  driftweed  and 
sticks  lined  with  down,  and  placed,  usually,  on 
the  ground  in  a  marsh  or  meadow.  Occasion- 
ally it  is  upon  a  stump,  or  even  up  in  some  old 
fish-hawk's  nest  on  the  top  of  a  tree. 

As  soon  as  the  goslings  hatch  they  take  to  the 
water,  and  life  for  goose  and  gander  tangles  fast 
with  trouble. 

I  once  watched  a  pair,  that  had  bred  in  cap- 
tivity, as  they  were  led  about  by  one  small  gos- 
ling— their  only  one  left  out  of  a  brood  of  seven. 
I  cannot  imagine  their  pulling  through  alive 
had  all  seven  lived.  From  sunrise  to  nightfall 
their  anxious  day  was  spent  trying  to  keep  up 
with  Master  Gosling.  He  went  whither  he  would  ; 
they  in  single  file  waddled  along  behind,  caution- 
ing, chiding,  lamenting,  so  uncomfortably  hur- 
ried as  to  have  time  only  to  snatch  a  blade  of 
grass  here,  a  billful  of  water  there,  as  the  irre- 
pressible infant  straddled  up  and  down  his  back- 
yard world. 

It  is  well  along  in  August  before  the  young 
are  able  to  fly.  All  this  time  the  parents  have 
[276] 


cared  for  them,  and  will  continue  to  keep  them 
together  as  a  family  until  the  next  spring, 

No  phase  of  the  life  of  these  great  birds  is  so 
pleasiug  as  the  thought  of  this  family  life  — 
gander,  goose,  and  goslings  a  united  family  even 
while  mingling  as  part  of  some  numerous  flock. 
Every  wedge  of  wild  geese  that  flies  trumpeting 
overhead  in  the  autumn  nights  is  either  a  family 
or  a  neighborhood  of  families  led  by  some  strong 
old  gander. 

The  great  event  in  the  goose  calendar  is  this 
autumn  flight,  The  life  of  all  the  rest  of  the 
year  seems  incidental  to  this.  Need  for  food  and 
escape  from  the  deadly  cold  were  doubtless  the 
first  causes  of  the  migration,  but  they  are  sec- 
ondary now.  The  flight  for  its  own  sake  seems 
to  have  become  a  fever  in  their  bones.  For 
weeks  previous  to  the  departure,  restlessness  and 
strange  desires  possess  the  birds.  The  flight — 
mile-high,  for  a  thousand  miles  ;  ordered,  thrill- 
ing j  past  changing  belts  of  landscape  to  a  new 
world  !  — such  a  flight  is  the  fulfilment  of  life. 

The  love  of  it  is  far  more  than  the  desire  for 
food.     Next  to  the  want  of  mate  and  offspring 
is  the  need  for  this  flight.     It  is  not  a  desire  of 
[277] 


the  flesh,  but  of  the  spirit.  Food  does  not  fail 
in  the  farm-yard;  yet  the  tame  Canada  geese, 
when  the  nights  grow  crisp  and  the  wild  flocks 
go  honking  over,  will  scream  and  run  and  flap 
their  crippled  wings  with  a  wild  longing  to  fly 
away—  high  and  far  and  long  into  the  air. 

It  is  little  that  most  of  us  know  of  the  wild 
geese  besides  this  passing.  But  who  has  not  seen 
the  wonderful  wedge,  like  a  harrow  moving 
across  the  sky,  or  the  long  file,  like  a  strange 
many-oared  shell,  swimming  the  clouds?  Who 
has  not  heard  the  thrilling  trumpet-call  out 
of  the  star-depths  of  the  silent  autumn  night? 
Even  in  the  heart  of  a  vast  city  I  have  awakened 
at  the  cloud-echoed  cry,  far  off,  weird,  and 
haunting. 

High  and  swift  as  they  move,  the  passage  still 
is  a  long  and  dangerous  one. 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

True ;   but  that  height  cannot  always  be  sus- 
tained.    The  bird  is  flesh :  such  speed,  though 
[278] 


the  stroke  be  timed,  rapidly  exhausts  ;  the  wings 
must  rest ;  the  flier  must  have  food  ;  and  await- 
ing the  descent  is  a  line  of  enemies  as  long  and 
almost  as  continuous  as  the  course. 

Fogs  obscure  the  way  ;  storms  hinder,  noises 
confuse  ;  and  often,  most  dangerous  of  all,  across 
the  brittle,  bracing  air  of  the  course  blows  a 
thick,  warm  wind  that  sends  the  whole  flock 
reeling  and  sagging  to  the  earth.  Hundreds  of 
geese  one  day,  overcome  by  a  sudden  wave  of 
heat,  dropped  upon  a  small  pond  back  of  my 
home,  and  when  the  village  turned  out  to  the 
slaughter,  the  poor  things  scattered  about  the 
neighboring  fields,  too  weak  and  heavy  to  rise 
higher  than  the  tree-tops. 

There  is  not  a  single  event  in  all  the  year  of 
the  fields  that  I  would  not  sooner  forgo  than  the 
sight  and  sound  of  the  flying  geese.  How  it 
takes  hold  of  the  imagination !  There  is  no 
vivider  passage  in  all  of  Audubon  than  his  de- 
scription of  the  flight : 

"  As  each  successive  night  the  hoar-frosts  cover 
the  country,  and  the  streams  are  closed  over  by 
the  ice,  the  family  joins  that  in  their  neighbor- 
hood, which  is  also  joined  by  others.  At  length 
[279] 


they  espy  the  advance  of  a  snow-storm,  when 
the  ganders  with  one  accord  sound  the  order  for 
their  departure. 

"After  many  wide  circliugs,  the  flock  has  risen 
high  in  the  thin  air,  and  an  hour  or  more  is 
spent  in  teaching  the  young  the  order  in  which 
they  are  to  move.  But  now  the  host  has  been 
marshaled,  and  off  it  starts.  The  old  males 
advance  in  front,  the  females  follow,  the  young 
come  in  succession  according  to  their  strength, 
the  weakest  forming  the  rear.  Should  one  feel 
fatigued,  his  position  is  changed  in  the  ranks, 
and  he  assumes  a  place  in  the  wake  of  another, 
who  cleaves  the  air  before  him ;  perhaps  the 
parent  bird  flies  for  a  while  by  his  side  to 
encourage  him." 

What  meaning,  and  yet  what  mystery,  that  line 
of  winging  geese  has  for  us  when  we  remember 
all  this !  The  bare  facts  brought  by  the  natu- 
ralist are  wonderful  enough.  But,  besides  the 
naturalist,  the  poet  also  has  watched  that  strange 
winging  wedge  across  the  sky,  and  the  facts  are 
forgotten  in  the  deeper  meaning,  the  deeper 
mystery  of  his  suggestions.  Not  the  flight  of  the 
birds  themselves  seems  to  me  so  perfect,  so  won- 
[280] 


derful,  as  the  flight  of  these  Hues  which  a  pass- 
ing waterfowl  inspired  : 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 

flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


[281] 


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